


WMHS: The Tyrant Of My Heart

by HADALABO



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:51:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 239,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HADALABO/pseuds/HADALABO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We Went Too Fast Too Young." "Baby Just Shut Up And Love Me." In a school ruled by jostling jocks and conniving cheerleaders, the social outcasts of McKinley High cower under their reign. Little does new student Kurt Hummel know that as he struggles to survive his tormentors, he will be forced into a chain of surreal events that will reveal denial, redemption and ultimately, love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lima

**Author's Note:**

> Hi babies, I'm back! I hope you all had a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I'm ready to kick start January with my second Puckurt story and fan fiction tale so thanks for reading the first chapter. Hopefully what you've read is of interest to you and you will be entertained to read further. This is also my first narrative that is not set in an Alternative Universe, my first being New York City: Strut Your Way To Love which I suggest you check out. However it doesn't mean that it will follow the strict canon road. There will be many scenes that will heavily contradict and oppose what occurs on the show but only because the whole story wouldn't work of they didn't.
> 
> I started writing this in October and finished in December with the remaining time used to edit any last minute changes which may have happened so you can imagine how excited I am to finally publish this. The genre of this story is Romance/Angst so if you're not prepared to embark on a fast and furious roller coaster of emotions, this is not for you. I've rated this narrative Fiction M for a reason. Although it won't appear any time soon, there will be a sex scene so don't say I didn't warn you. There will also be use of strong discriminatory language and profanity so all be warned.

**WMHS: THE TYRANT OF MY HEART**

"Sometimes you've wronged someone who has so much innocence within them, you feel like you want to die." You see a school like any school. Look closer. You see a boy who's hardly there. Look closer. Jocks. Cheerleaders. Geeks. Love. Look closer. **..**

_Heard you're new in town,_   
_Want someone to show you round,_   
_Well no one knows this place just quite like me..._

Kurt Hummel gingerly stepped out of his father's SUV onto the drive below and stared up at his new five thousand, seven hundred and twenty six square foot single family home. He had traveled all the way with his father, Burt, from Columbus where he had been born and raised to the new city of Lima where they would be living from now on. Burt had recently inherited his father's garage in the center of town after he had passed away a month ago and was set to reopen the joint once they had moved and settled into their new house.

Normally, the Hummel's wouldn't have been able to afford such a beautiful place, which stood proudly in front of them in all its glory, but considering Hummel Tire and Lube had been rather lucrative in the past, coupled with Kurt's grandfather having been extremely generous with his will, they had been given the chance to live in a good looking house rather than a large apartment in the capital.

415 Whitman Avenue resembled, from the outside, like the traditional American two story house with its highly symmetrical white walls, multi-paned windows evenly balanced on either side of the central door with a grey tiled roof and liver shaped swimming pool in the backyard. It boasted five bedrooms, six bathrooms and what he assumed to have been bought much to his horror for one million, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

He had questioned if Burt had gone a little overboard with the spending, after Kurt had taken it upon himself to curiously research into the property's features and financial worth, but he'd only been dismissed once his father had claimed that the house had in fact not been purchased, but had been rather deemed to them in the will. _Didn't know grandpa was this loaded,_ thought Kurt as he opened the white picket fence gate at the front and made his way to the navy blue front door via the brick path, which seemed to slightly weave itself through the front lawn. _Didn't know he also was this conservative when it came to the good old architecture._

"Okay Kurt you can give yourself a little tour if you want," offered Burt as he unlocked the front door to reveal the foyer. Kurt's eyes were peeled open as he took in every single detail and as he wondered further into the entrance hall, Burt shut the door behind them. "I used to come here sometimes when I was a kid so I know the place pretty well. As well as the bedrooms and bathrooms there will be the living room, dining room, kitchen, study, recreation room, basement which is also funnily enough one of the bedrooms and bathrooms so you might want to check that out, there will be several closets and rest rooms scattered around the place and... I feel like I've forgotten something... what have I left out... oh yeah, the utility room and studio are both on the first floor."

"Alright... well I'll explore the place and find out where everything is," muttered Kurt, his voice trailing away as he began to wonder about the house, his father chuckling as he made his way back to the car to collect the luggage they had brought with them. However as Kurt whipped around as Burt left the house, he called after him. "But if you need help you can call me and I can lend a hand unless I get lost in this maze of a house we have here."

"How about I start bringing my belongings and then you start bringing in yours later?" suggested Burt, laughing aloud at Kurt's comment concerning the sheer size of the house. It was definitely a change from the large flat they had had in Columbus and it would take some time getting used to actually living also in another area that was foreign to his son considering Kurt had never visited the place. "It'll give you more time to check the place out and all."

"That's not fair, I have more stuff to carry in, you have next to nothing," complained Kurt, walking to the front door and squinting his eyes as the summer sun blared down onto his father outside. "I'll need some help at least with the suitcases in the back. Come on dad, I don't have the power in my little old arms. I need help."

"It was your choice to buy those monstrosities Kurt," replied Burt, shaking his head as Kurt leaned on the door frame and pouted. "I mean you wanted to bring your whole wardrobe, your skin stuff and every other piece of furniture from your old room so you have no one else but to blame but yourself."

"Are you saying you're not going to help at all?" asked Kurt in disbelief, Burt once again braking out into a round of chuckling as his son frowned at the amused reaction. "What are you laughing at? I offered you my help, the least you could do is lend me yours. Plus I haven't been given a chance to see this gorgeous house yet so pretty please."

"I was only kidding with you son," laughed Burt, flashing a smile at Kurt as he made his way over to the Navigator and white moving van which had accompanied them there. "Can't blame me for fooling with you, you're just too gullible for your own good. Go on into the house and get back to looking around. I want you to have memorized exactly where every room is so that when it comes to assigning things to each area, you'll know where I mean. That and if there's an explosion somewhere you'll be able to point us both towards the nearest exit before we become giant flaming hot pieces of bacon, alright?"

"Sure, I'll do that," replied Kurt, returned the warm smile before bouncing back into the house, leaving the door wide open so that he wouldn't be interrupted if his father wanted to come back in. "Okay... where should I start off first?" asked Kurt to himself as he made his way through the hall into the kitchen. Checking if the cupboards and drawers had enough storage space for their large collection of gleaming utensils, the brunet was just about to head towards the backdoor that led into the garden when a door to the right suddenly caught his eye. He stared at it, thinking it would just be another run of the mill coat closet of some kind but as he pulled it open to confirm his guess, he was faced with a wall of darkness, the light behind him streaming down on to a set of white stairs that lead down below.

"This must be the basement," he muttered, switching his gaze from the floor to the white walls for a light switch, but there was none. There was no switch or device of any kind that worked in both the on and off mode. Yet his curiosity had him running back to the rucksack that Burt had brought in when he had unlocked the front door, rummaging around for the black metal torch, pulling it out and racing back towards the basement door. He flashed the torch on; it's slightly blue tinted light shining bright ahead of him and only then did he start to descend the set of stairs, treading carefully so as to not slip and bang his head on the hard looking floor below. _This isn't creepy at all,_ he thought sarcastically as the light led him down, down, down into the room below. _This isn't scar-Oh!_

Kurt's heart nearly broke out of his rib cage as the in-built lights in the ceiling of the basement rose to attention, his shaking hands nearly dropping the heavy torch from his grip as his eyes adjusted to the increase in widespread light. Silently awing to himself as he scanned the room, a wide grin graced his features as excitement soared within him. This was just the best. He was standing at the foot of the staircase leading to the guest basement bedroom but it was better than he had actually imagined. When Burt had mentioned 'basement' and 'bedroom' in the same sentence, images of a dingy like dungeon fully equipped with a rotting mattress infested with insects that made Kurt's stomach churn painfully came very much to mind, but never the impressive sight before him.

The room was extensive with white painted walls and floor, a low ceiling, in built wardrobes lining the right hand wall, a modern baby blue four poster bed directly in front of him against the opposite wall with see through curtains attached to each post and finally, a scarlet couch at the foot of the bed atop a carpet printed in the American flag to match. _Heaven, I'm in paradise,_ thought Kurt as he unconsciously dropped the torch to the floor from his loosened grip and stumbled forwards towards the in built closets, running his fingers along the polished wood before opening them up and diving deep inside them. Pulling his head out from taking whiff after whiff of the wonderful aroma that was brand new leather, Kurt spotted the bed and rushed on over to it, stroking the soft brown and blue duvet and allowing his knees to buckle from the sensation stroking his palm.

"I see you've found your grandmother's little sanctuary," chuckled Burt as Kurt gasped and stumbled backwards, nearly dodging the chic wooden table end and golden lit lamp as he attempted to recapture his composure and dignity. "I knew you'd like it. You and her share similar tastes I guess."

"You mean she decorated this room?" asked Kurt in disbelief as he made his way back to the center of the basement only to have his eyes stolen yet again by another door which led onto the en-suite bathroom, his father laughing as a delighted 'Yes!' echoed around its walls. "I'm really surprised. She is probably the only elderly person who isn't obsessed with horrible and overused floral patterns... and pictures of creepy judgmental kittens lining the walls."

"Well she was a modern kind of woman so it's to be expected," replied Burt as he made his way to the blood red sofa before lounging on it, taking in as did Kurt, every detail he could. "Yeah, this was her little den where she would come to be on her own. She was sad when she had to say goodbye, you know, now that she's in the care home and all but I think she'll like it if someone were to actually use it and not abandon it."

"Will she really mind if I make this my bedroom?" inquired Kurt, walking from the bathroom to stand in front of his father, his head still spinning from side to side, attempting to catch anything he hadn't yet noticed. "Because if I do then I'll have to fill those wardrobes with my clothes, have my shower and bath products in that bathroom and sleep in that bed."

"Kurt I'm aware of what happens when one switches bedrooms," dismissed Burt as he rose from the couch and rested his hand on Kurt's right shoulder reassuringly. "I know what it entails. I just think it would be nice for my son to appreciate the work his grandmother did by sleeping in the room she worked very hard to style and decorate which I just think suits you very well. It'll be a touching gesture and when you come to tell her in when we next see her, I'm sure she'll be more than happy... although try not to let her kiss you on the lips, she tastes like raw liver nowadays."

"Noted, but do you think she'll mind if I install in built speakers into the ceiling, remove the stair lift and change the shower so that it doesn't have a seat with handles in it?" asked Kurt as he gestured back towards the bathroom, his father following his line of sight. "It's just that I can't really live without my music and I'm not at risk of falling down the stairs or in the shower unlike grandma."

"I'll allow the shower to change sure, but if in built speakers are going to appear then we're going to have to sound proof the walls because no way am I going to be one of those dads who pound at your door for minutes on end crying out 'turn that racket down!' over and over again," replied Burt, Kurt smiling and nodding in agreement as his father headed for the stairs. "I love my voice at it is, I'm not done with it yet."

"Well then let me see, in the mean time I can put my iHome on the left hand end table over there…" murmured Kurt as he walked over to the side of the bed and surveyed the area, his fingers ghosting over the small polished wooden table. "And I guess my vanity can fit somewhere over here by the left hand wall so that it's in line with the American rug which I have to say, I love."

"Well actually nanna wasn't very patriotic," countered Burt as he stuffed his hands inside his pockets and examined the carpet with his foot. "She was never into the good old Americana much preferring the European culture, you know, that's why she had that huge cabinet stuffed to the brim with souvenirs from London, Paris and Rome. I think this was in the attic but when it came back into fashion especially in the youth section, she brought it down."

"Do you think I got my sense of style from her then?" inquired Kurt as he raised his head in curiosity, his father smiling as he chuckled deeply. "I mean I don't think I got it from you because you're not into stuff like that, mom's style was too eclectic compared to mine and grandpa was just plain old war veteran."

"I think there's a slight possibility yes," agreed Burt as Kurt smiled and looked back down at the intricately embroidered quilt, his skin getting caressed with every millimeter of fabric he stroked. "But you'll have to earn those new audio features, son. You've already been spoilt with a new bedroom you love, you'll have to earn the bonus stuff. Now, want to come into town with me? I don't know about you but an empty fridge that's as empty as my stomach right now simply won't do."

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

Burt carefully parked the car in the parking lot of the newly opened Wegmans that had appeared apparently a month ago and turned off the engine. He undid his seat belt and swiveled in his seat as he repositioned himself to see his son, looking out his window, eying his surroundings and the many faces of the Lima population.

The supermarket car park was rather busy and what with it sharing the same lot as the Lima Mall several hundred meters away, quite a number of people were driving in out of it as well as entering or exiting either building with their many purchased goods. Burt knew that Kurt had never really had that hard a time adjusting to different locations. In fact it was pretty easy for him to settle in comfortably, unlike some seventeen year old teens his age.

"Well this is the supermarket and the mall is over there son," commented Burt as he pointed to both of the large buildings, Kurt snapping out of his staring faze to follow his father's descriptions. "This is where we'll be buying the groceries from now on and don't worry; I heard Wegmans is known for their service, perishables and cleanliness alright so you needn't worry. You have got the list of foods you'd like?"

"Here you go," replied Kurt as he handed over his own grocery list to his father who safely tucked it into his jeans back pocket with his son unbuckling his seat belt. "I've tried to fit everything on there as you can see so that I haven't had to miss anything out." Back in Columbus, he had always been the one to buy the food in the house since his father had been at work as a mechanic in the city whilst now that he was getting used to Lima, Burt had suggested he buy the food whilst Kurt go explore the mall. He knew this only because the mall was only one of his son's top ten favorite places to go, spend his time and with that, his pocket money.

"Alright well I'll see you back here in an hour," suggested Burt as both of them exited the car, the man locking it as they walked around to the back of the vehicle. "You've got your smartphone with you so call me if you finish early even though that's never happened in the past and I don't want you buying loads of stuff at his stage, Kurt. We've yet to move everything that we already have into the house which means no extras."

"I do have common sense dad so you needn't patronize me," scoffed Kurt lightly as he dismissed the comment in favor of looking towards the mall which from where he was standing looked pretty large in itself. "I'm just going to take my surroundings in before I start spending the cash and besides, this mall of yours might not have that many high end stores or shops of interest so we'll just have to see, won't we?"

"Try not to sound so stuck up son, your nose is high enough as it is," chuckled Burt as Kurt gasped and lightly hit him around the arm before turning on his heels and walking towards the mall, the sound of his round toe desert boots making themselves very much heard. "Always kidding Kurt! Always kidding!"

The pale boy rolled his eyes at his father's laughter which seemed to die the further he walked away and as he continued journeying towards the mall's glass sliding doors, he continued to observe people's faces, attitude and sense of style. He had always been a more of a visual person and learner than anything else but it didn't mean that he necessarily judged anyone by their look or image. He was much more mature than to adopt the 'never judge a book by its cover' line. Nevertheless he still believed that the way a person wanted to present themselves to the world had to be at least a small aspect people had to take in.

The weather was, for the city of Lima anyway, very pleasant and as Kurt entered the mall, the air conditioning hit him full force with a slight chill eliciting a shiver out of him. He scoured the area near the entrance for a map that could aid him with selecting the right stores to visit and as he walked further into the mall, he spotted one over by a set of benches. Casually making his way to stand in front of it, Kurt began scanning the list of shops, a smile appearing on his face. _Well at least there's a Topman,_ he thought as he noticed the British fashion store in the list alongside a Bodega, Baldwin, South Willard and Ina Men _._

Kurt straightened up, attempting to memorize the map and sighed happily. He wasn't going to cause that much harm if he were to purchase one item of clothing was he? _I mean a jumper say won't anger dad that much,_ he thought as he traveled towards the Topman store on the first floor. _It'll be like christening my new wardrobe with a Lima bought product._ The mall itself had said in its history description by the map that it had been constructed in the 1870s, refurbished during the 1950s and yet again modernized in 2010 which probably explained the overlapping panes of glass in the continuous greenhouse like ceiling above and the large pots of exotic plants scattered around only seen in large greenhouses in stately Victorian British manors.

Half an hour had flown by in the space of several minutes as Kurt had entered Topman and the accompanying fashion stores within the mall as well as the occasional electronic store. The service behind the tills in most of the shops was impressive except for the bathroom department in Bed, Bath and Beyond in which Kurt had entered just for mere interest's sake. He had consulted the specialist, who, according to him, knew everything there was to know about showers and the various appliances that went with it, as well as water jets and the different water heads available.

However after inquiring after the advantages in water pressure from one particular model to the next, the only response he'd rudely received had been an obvious unimpressed expression followed by a very vague and brief response which had left him feeling very frustrated and very unsatisfied indeed. _Mega service fail,_ he had thought as he had left the store, his stomach suddenly rumbling as he looked down with embarrassment, secretly hoping no one around had heard.

He made his way to the food court where a Paul French family bakery and patisserie was surprisingly situated. This caused Kurt to giggle to himself as here was an upscale café in Lima with every other food joint surrounding it either being Pizzeria Cheapo, The Venison Hut, The Picky Vegan and a Batholomew Butterfat's Ice Cream Parlor, or a random Mexican Brown Burrito stand. _Talk about varied,_ he thought to himself as he purchased himself a Fraisier layered with Genoese sponge, velvety vanilla mousse and fresh strawberries and a large cup of Earl Grey Tea to go. _But then again it's better than nothing._ As he made sure not to spill his hot beverage and also to not cause too much damage to his green marzipan and strawberry topped cake, Kurt made his way back to the exit of the mall. It was nearly rearing sixty minutes by the time he'd purchased his food and he knew he had to hurry if he didn't want to keep his father waiting.

However as he was descending the grand staircase to the ground floor, in bustled a group of teenage boys who looked around his age, laughing and joking around, childishly pushing each other as their loud voices carried through the mall. _Oh uh,_ thought Kurt as he stopped dead in his tracks, panicking slightly for a place to hide. He knew this particular breed of teenage boy or to put an official classification on them, the jock or 'the thick brained Neanderthal twat' as he liked to describe them as. He'd suffered from the rough hands of jocks in the past but only on a small degree. However now he wasn't in Columbus any more. He was no longer attending a capital high school. Burt had informed him of the town's secondary school, William McKinley High School and although Kurt had never seen the premises yet, he wasn't at all looking forward to it.

As he struggled to find a god damn plant pot to hide behind, Kurt finally decided to forget it and settle on briskly walking towards the entrance without a care in the world. _I'll just get it over and done with. It'll be like ripping off a band-aid,_ he thought as the group of boys averaging around five to ten in number approached. _They're too busy acting like idiots to notice me._ With that thought in mind, Kurt breathed reassuringly to himself, retained his posture and headed towards the sliding glass doors.

As he made his way nearer to the group, Kurt was able to sneakily catch a glimpse of all the jocks' faces with the first being good looking yet strangely tall, the second being tanned, muscled, sort of handsome but sporting a ridiculous mohawk, an athletic looking oriental boy with what looked like good coordination and a blond with pale skin and large lips. Of course there had been many others but they were the only set of faces he'd had time to really look at without them noticing and as he ducked his head, he passed them, breathing a sigh of relief as his clear path ahead was no longer tainted with obstacles.

He had reached the doors unscathed and it seemed as if the boys had either not noticed him or had not found him to be of any interest at all. However, as he made to exit the mall, one of the boys from the group turned around, causing the rest of them to stop and look in Kurt's direction. The pale boy didn't notice however as his back was turned to them but as he made to exit, the jock barked. "Fag!" he roared as Kurt instantly stilled, his eyes blowing wide as he stood there frozen. A round of heckling laughter rang out from the group as the brunet started to look around himself consciously.

People had stopped in surprise of the homophobic slur and were gaping in shock at the chuckling jocks as well as staring at him, eying him with sympathy. Though despite this, not a single one of them approached him to ask how he was, an act Kurt wasn't really expecting. None of them did anything. In fact, after around several minutes, interest in the situation waned and off they went. Kurt really wanted to do the same but curiosity was his masochistic puppeteer and as he finally slowly turned around to see the eagerly watching boys, their eyes fixed on him like a hungry pack of predators before the kill, one jock in particular caught his eye.

The boy with the stupid Mohawk was evilly grinning back at him, his eyes darkly shining as it became apparent to Kurt that he had been the one to shout the homophobic taunt. Raising his hand once he knew that he had captured Kurt's attention, the tanned boy then waved back at him in an exceedingly effeminate way, a cheap attempt Kurt thought to imitate a homosexual. Much to his surprise it caused him to nearly giggle on how ridiculous he looked but he dared not show a single trace of amusement.

He didn't want the boy to think he was laughing at him because judging by the sheer size of his arms and general burly build; it would have been a mistake he'd most likely never have forgotten. Instead, he muffled his deteriorating laughter with a glare his father had always claimed had given him the creeps, willing the idiot's haircut to get ripped off his head with so much force that his measly brain fell out, or for him to go die in a vat filled with skin burning acid somewhere dusty and barren.

With those malicious thoughts raging inside his head, Kurt whipped around and exited the mall in a dignified manner, not wanting to show the ignorant boy and his bigoted friends the damage they had caused him because no matter how many times he had been called 'The F Word', the pain and hurt had never disappeared. It was a sensitive spot he knew he had but at all costs had he learned not to react to it. He couldn't afford to. He would never allow his oppressors to see him fall.

He was an emotionally strong person and he had the strength to put up with such onslaught but as he reminded himself that he was merely a sophomore newcomer with a sole wish to get to know the town he would be living in for the next three years, his barriers broke. _I'll never be left alone... will I,_ he asked himself as the weight of cake and tea seemed to only weigh his body down, his head drooping as it did. _I'll never be free from it._ _  
_  
He managed to meet up in time with his father, who had only just returned from Wegman's. Apparently he'd run into an old friend and they'd managed to catch up briefly in the meat and fish isle, leading Kurt to look down at the ground. _If only I ran into nicer people,_ he thought, flashing his father a fake smile before helping him pack the groceries into the boot of the car. _But I guess I'll have to rebuild my defenses all over again._

Burt pulled out of the parking lot, the orange ray of light from the setting sun coating the car in an amber tone. It was a beautiful sight. What with all the shades of reds and pinks, but as the pale boy looked out the window of the speeding Navigator as it headed on home, the Lima countryside blurring past him in a race of speed and light, a soft innocent tear trickled down his cheek.

_So don't rely on people you meet,_   
_Cos' no one is safe in these streets..._


	2. William McKinley High School

Kurt was already up and early out of bed at seven in the morning on Monday because today was his first day of High School in Lima. After his less than welcoming visit to the mall last Saturday, he hadn't cried, he hadn't bawled and he'd certainly not told his father that the town he'd brought him into was most likely a small minded one. He didn't want to ruin Burt's buzz because by the looks and sounds of it, his father was very much looking forward to working at the garage in town. It was clearly etched on his face and Kurt didn't want removing it on his guilty conscience because usually when his father was happy and content, he was able to get away with much more than the norm, which in the end probably explained the high sums of pocket money he was occasionally given on some months, something he was very much pleased about.

School was set to commence at eight in the morning and Kurt had showered, styled his hair and hydrated, soothed and protected his skin with a dollop of moisturizer. He'd applied a subtle amount of lightweight tinted moisturizer to add sheen and glow for a natural complexion, as well as a dab of concealer so as to not make it too obvious but to successfully brighten and minimize the dark shadows around his eyes. It was certainly a lot less coverage than he used to wear. Back in his early teens he'd suffered from very oily skin and subsequent severe acne, and it hadn't been until he'd undergone an excruciatingly dry six month course of Accutane that his skin now resembled how it looked during his childhood: youthfully clear, blemish free and something else that the drug had left him with, a light phosphorescence that could only be described as a milder version of Twilight's Vampires in the sun.

Now however as he now stood in front of his wardrobe, scanning his clothing rack, he pondered the evolution of its appearance. His style had very much changed from middle school and he hadn't known at first but his fashion sense seemed to have dimmed down in the flamboyance sector with more fitted, care free and comfortable yet stylish looking clothes lining the rack. Gone were the bombastic bow ties and peacockish broaches, in fact there was nothing really ostentatious about anything in his wardrobe. All there was room for was style. With everything else in years gone by he'd also since thrown out any pieces of jewellery he had owned including necklaces, bracelets, pendants, rings and the embarrassing tiara collection he had a few months ago.  _Oh my God, tiaras, really?!_  He thought as he cringed to himself.  _Thank god I still produce testosterone because otherwise I'm pretty sure my balls would have dropped off by now._

As Kurt pulled out a pair of blue skinny jeans, a red Lacoste polo shirt and a Cross Hatch cream outerwear jumper along with white everyday canvas plimsolls, he eyed himself in the full-length mirror. His outfit wasn't that masculine but it wasn't overtly feminine either, it was just right. First impressions meant the world to people and when it came to your first day at school for Kurt, nothing was more important.  _You look good,_  he thought to himself as he did a one eighty and then a three sixty degree turn, his eyes never leaving his figure.  _Well coordinated outfit and all._ Once had had broken his gaze from his reflection, he checked his black Visconti school bag to see that he had all he would need including his pencil case, note pad, folders and every other school accessory imaginable before slinging it over his shoulder and breathing silently to himself.

"Kurt, we have to go!" Cried out Burt from his door, the boy's eyes flying wide open as his body jumped from the sheer volume in his father's voice. It certainly was a tone to kick him into high gear, especially since he'd returned to gusying up in the mirror for any faults in his apparel. Curse today's hold on him. "If you want to be on time we've got to head out! You don't want to be late on your first day otherwise you'll be known to everyone as the late one for the rest of the year!"

"I'm coming, I'll be up in second, just hang on!" replied Kurt as he dashed towards his vanity where his Antidote cologne for men by Victor & Rolf was neatly located. He had admitted that he hadn't been one for fragrances in the past, citing them as unnecessary, expensive and key instigators of countless headaches but after he'd been given for his birthday present  _Glamorous Magnolia_ ,  _Gorgeous Gardenia_  and  _Gracious Tuberose_ , all from the The Garden Collection by Gucci Flora, he'd relented. He could quite happily wear perfumes concocted for both men and women, depending on his mood and time of day and had been pleasantly surprised to find out that his grandmother had done the same.

She had claimed that all she ever wore were fragrances for men to render herself and her presence, a sense of strength and power, which Kurt thought to be perfectly understandable. Now however as he spritzed the refreshing and sun kissed yet warm and bewitching aroma behind his ears and on his neck, he couldn't help thinking about her and her signature scent which had blended into everything as a parting gift to the house.  _I wonder what I'll leave behind,_  he thought as he felt the cool liquid trickle down his skin until the scent began to explode with vibrant colors before putting it down and racing to his door.

"I'm getting into the car then," stated Burt as Kurt bounded up the stairs of the basement and shut his door behind him. All the small amount of furniture and other belongings from Columbus had taken some time to get organized into their appropriate places but by the time Sunday evening had rolled around, everything had been officially settled into their new home. "Remember to check that you have everything you need alright son. I don't want you saying you've forgotten something and have to come walking all the way back because you haven't been careful enough. I know the school is only fifteen minutes away but try to avoid it anyway."

"Don't worry, I triple checked everything last night," assured Kurt as Burt shut and locked the door behind them before they both walked towards the Navigator, it's shiny black coat heavily reflecting the bright morning sun. Kurt had to be careful at times. The ray's reflections could be blinding. "It took me ages to get to sleep last night. Not because the room or the bed was uninviting but because today is pretty much going to determine a lot for me and what that might be sort of scares me."

"Why? Are you not looking forward to it?" Asked Burt as he unlocked the car and climbed in, his son following suit. Usually Kurt would drive himself anywhere but because he didn't know the town very well and because today was already dangerously high on the nerve scale, it was best for the boy not to get behind the wheel. "Are you afraid you'll get bullied? Because son if that happens, don't go hiding it from people the teachers or me. That's a fatal mistake everyone does and it's often too late when the damage has already been done by the time they confide for help."

"Yeah I'll try not to keep you in the dark," relented Kurt as they peeled out of the driveway, the journey to the school commencing as Burt picked up speed. Yet the faster they went, the louder Kurt's heart thumped. "But I'll only let you know when I know I can't sort it out successfully on my own okay dad? It's just that I'm seventeen now, you know a sophomore and I want to express my maturity through dealing with my problems on my own. Do you understand?"

"You sound just like your mother," chuckled Burt, Kurt's eyebrows raising themselves into a high position as his father cast him a glance and burst out laughing, his son then frowning at the amusement. It's not that the mention of his mother caused him to tear up, shudder or to even bring him down. It's just that whenever she was mentioned, Kurt would always look back fondly on her. She had been his best friend for most of his childhood after all. "She'd also do that thing you do with your eyebrows as well. I swear you've inherited more from her and her side of the family than mine."

"Well let's not forget we suspect I inherited your mother's great sense of style and eye for excellent taste in decoration," smiled Kurt as Burt's chuckles subsided to reveal a wide grin in its place. Yes, Kurt's artistic sense had been inherited from his father's side of the family and it was something he treasured dearly. He would hopefully come in handy some day to save his friends and family from hiring expensive decorators. "I mean I might have gotten mom's pale skin tone, lips and alright maybe her sarcastic sense of humor, but the fashion aspect must never go miss. Never."

"What about your eyes Kurt? You can't ever miss your eyes," replied Burt as Kurt blinked and brought a finger to feel the skin around his eyes, powder blue eyes that people had always compared to those belonging to the British actress, Helen Flanagan. When it came to looking in his mirror, his eyes had always gone a miss. He was always too busy looking elsewhere, but occasionally when he had connected with his own stare, he had felt slightly uneasy, as if the boy in the mirror was looking into his own soul instead of the other way around. "You know when you were younger; people would always ask how you came to have such surprising eyes. You were known in Kindergarten as the boy with the baby blue eyes."

"Really?" inquired Kurt in surprise as Burt neared the gates of the school, drove into the parking lot and parked the car in a spare space not that far from the front entrance. The brunet was amazed that it hadn't taken that long but as he thought about it, it dawned on him that his father had purposefully sped and distracted him with mindless chit chat in the attempt to distract him from the day ahead and for that, he was grateful. "I'm so used to them that I guess I they don't pop out with such an obvious nature as they once did. Personally I think blue is blue and my eyes don't look any different from the next blue eyed person."

"Oh be careful there, son," replied Burt as Kurt unbuckled his seat belt and hopped out of the car, shutting his passenger door before peering at his dad through the opened window. Words of wisdom from the father to his good old son? Wait. Why was he calling himself old? "People wouldn't have come up to me and asked me about your eyes if they hadn't been different from the average. I'm telling you now Kurt that that shade you have within you is more than just plain old blue."

"Bye dad, I'll see you at four," giggled Kurt as he stepped away from the SUV, his father backing out of the space before halting when Kurt approached him yet again. "And have fun at the garage. Go fix the towns cars and make grandpa proud." Burt simply beamed at his son in response before turning to head out of the lot. It was an assurance that Kurt knew how to craft when it came to morally supporting his father and since he had done it to him on a regular basis, the least he could do was to actually return the favor.

High school students as well as cars coming in and out of the parking lot were making their way towards their destinations and as Kurt stood rooted to where he had been deposited, he observed William McKinley High School. To tell you the truth there was nothing special about it. The building looked pretty much generic for a school and it seemed, to Kurt anyway, to be lacking in complete character and source of inspiration. It wasn't that he was looking for a masterpiece of architecture, just a little something, but not even that was showing. He was quickly snapped out his thoughts however when the sound of a car beeping its horn was heard beside him and as he looked round, he saw an agitated girl with brown hair and eyes alongside a large almost Jewish looking nose angrily staring at him, indicating that he was currently standing in her parking space.

He waved apologetically accompanied with a shy mouthed 'sorry' before jumping out of the way and making his way towards the entrance to the high school. Students were standing, sitting or chatting by the main doors or either entering the building and heading towards their lockers. The sound of hustling and bustling was thick in the morning air and as the school's logo and mascot loomed over the front entrance, Kurt peering up at the sign; his nerves came back full force. He knew that he had to go to the school office and receive his timetable for his subjects but the thought of entering the building was making it all the more real that he was starting a fresh in a new town and a new school.

As a man with curly hair, a white shirt and tie walked past him and paused, Kurt switched his gaze from the main corridor, which he had just entered to him, his eyes wide with nerves. The man, who looked like he actually worked here, glanced at him before offering him a welcoming smile as he approached. As he did, Kurt continued to observe him and as he neared, the boy found his grip on his bag gradually loosening and his body becoming less and less tense with the thought of help coming his way.  _I have to get to get used to asking people for that,_  he thought as the man stopped to stand in front of him, his smile never disappearing.  _Because honestly how hard can it be._

"Excuse me young man, are you lost?" asked the professor as Kurt blushed whist letting out an amused breathy laugh as he did so. He raised his gaze to the man's expectant face who held out a confident; welcoming hand in which Kurt quickly took up. It was firm handshake, one that had Kurt's arm flailing like a dolls as his muscles melted into jelly. He was so nervous. "I'm Mr. William Schuester, the head of the Spanish department. Have you lost your way? Do you need directions?"

"I need to get to the main school office to receive my timetable but I don't know where it is," he replied, shrugging in confusion as the teacher nodded in understanding, stepping aside and pointing to the office at the end of the corridor. It was hard to pinpoint the exact target through the hoards of students though. He'd figure it out. "Oh thanks. I'm Kurt Hummel; I just transferred here from Columbus which probably explains the deer in the headlights look I'm sporting right now."

"Nice to meet you Kurt," chuckled Mr. Schuester as the pale boy smiled nervously back at him, readjusting the bag on his shoulder he found it cutting into his skin more than usual, which was odd considering thought he had everything he needed, it shouldn't have weighed as much as it did. Wow, he was weak today. "If you find you have Spanish in your set of lessons then we'll most likely be seeing more of each other. I've got to run but it was nice meeting you and I hope you settle in well."

Smiling gratefully back, Kurt waved goodbye to the retreating Spanish teacher who rounded a corner and disappeared.  _Well he's the first genuinely nice person I met in this town,_  he thought as he turned around to walk in the direction of the school office.  _Unlike those pea brain idiots who…oh no, you've got to be kidding._ It was just Kurt's luck that the jocks he had come across on Saturday would also come to the very same school he was now attending because the brunet took in the sight before him, he moaned. Ahead of him were some the boys from the mall, all wearing their red Letterman jackets and leaning against a set of the red lockers. They seemed to be encircling someone or possibly two people but he couldn't tell and to be completely honest, he didn't want to know.

He decided that he didn't trust his sense of direction enough for him to take another route, that and not knowing the school at all, so he adopted the same failed tactic he had used on Saturday, making himself as small and as unnoticeable as possible. However as he made his way past them, his footsteps as light on the ground as a hunting cat, his curiosity gave in. He turned to look at the jocks who were by the looks of it were cheering on the very same mohawked punk from the mall. The burly boy was, by the looks of it, in the midst of passionately making out with a Latina cheerleader against one of the lockers. It was most definitely a very heated display of public affection that made Kurt want to violently puke the oatmeal and banana he'd eaten for breakfast.

However, what was worse was that despite them having an audience they had no problem being as forward as possible with each another. One of the Latina's legs had been holstered up by the tanned boy's hand around his hip and the cheerleader would often, and not discreetly by any means, let out soft cries of pleasure as her attacker showered her neck with kisses and merciless strong thrusts from his grinding hips.  _Savages,_  he thought as he pulled his eyes away from the disgusting sight before continuing on his way, not wanting the Letterman crowd in front of him to notice his presence.  _Seriously, they should all be rounded into a pen and locked up so that little kids can throw crumbs of bread at them._

It was strange that the school was allowing this very inappropriate behavior to happen within its own walls but then again, the place didn't seem to look like it enforced many of the rules into the hands of its students. At this rate it was going to be a long three years for him and it was most likely going to test him dearly but he wanted to survive, and survive he was going to do. However as he neared the office, the sign on the wall indicating to the glass partition on the left, one of the jocks within the group noticed his figure and called out, his voice loud as a megaphone in the echoing corridor. Kurt didn't know what to think anymore but he sure had learned from his mistakes, no turning around for their satisfaction this time.

"Hey look everyone; we have a queer in our midst!"

**.**

 

**Glee**

**.**

By the time the hands on every clock in the school had struck twelve, it was lunchtime and with that came the stampeding footsteps of ravenous teenagers, eagerly wanting to snag their food and reach their designated tables before anyone else. Of course Kurt had no idea what table he would be welcomed to eat at considering he didn't know where everyone sat, so as he pondered his dilemma, he observed the cafeteria from a safe distance. After he had received his timetable from the school office and made to roll his eyes at the sniggering jocks by the lockers, he had gone to his first set of periods which consisted of American Literature, Earth Science, World History, Physical Education and funnily enough Spanish which did seem to reassure him that little bit more after already meeting the professor who gladly welcomed him into the class.

He hadn't made any friends as of yet considering many of the students he'd studied with had preferred to take in and observe the new kid as much as possible instead of actually introducing themselves. It was somewhat sad in a way that he knew a great deal more about the teachers and the subjects they taught more than his peers did but then again it was only the first day back at school. He'd been secretly hoping that he wouldn't have to share his periods with any of the asshole like jocks that seemed to always point at either him, his clothes or bag and laugh in amusement but luck was just not with him today.  _What I'm wearing at least isn't cheap fitted trash,_  thought Kurt as he made to ignore the endless taunting in the form of childish laughter.  _But then again those idiots aren't even worth my time._

However as it turned out, much to Kurt's great dismay was that he shared homeroom, World History and American Literature with the worst of the bunch: the mohawked retard, who, by the looks of it, was doing all in his power to distract Kurt from his studies with endless bombs of paper projectiles and of course the immature classic, the kicking of his by the time lunch came around, Kurt was relieved as well as exhausted. The façade he'd put on was so hard to keep up and just plainly wore him out that he was glad that he was able to finally distance himself from thick skulled assholes. Yet as he entered the cafeteria he was faced with the new kind dilemma of where to sit.

Typically the new arrival would have been able to make friends by the time lunch came around so that they wouldn't be stuck like this, but since luck wasn't really on his side in the meeting new people successfully department yet again, he would have to either take his lunch and depressingly sit on the toilet just like Kady in  _Mean Girls,_ or go munch on a sandwich in the library. Both options of course only served to dampen his spirits and as he joined the cue, the end of the line seemed to come closer and closer until eventually, money was exchanged for a food of plastic. He looked around for anyone he had shared a class with but because the room was so vast and wide, it was almost impossible to see through the sea of chatting and bobbing heads.  _Shit..._

"Come sit with us," said a voice as Kurt jumped and looked behind him to see the girl who he had angered in the parking lot that morning. She had been right behind him but of course he hadn't noticed, his thoughts having already been heavily preoccupied with where to actually eat if at all. "I know what it's like not to actually sit anywhere because you don't know anybody and I only wish I had someone to do the same for me. So come with me and you can eat with us."

"Thanks," replied Kurt as the girl nodded in response before leading him through the cafeteria to a table situated by the window. As they passed the numerous tables on their journey, the brunet noticed that there was a section of the dining hall specifically associated for every single type of high school student including a table for the jocks, the cheerleaders, the preppies, the nerds, the geeks, the pot heads, the emos, the skaters, the slackers, the gangsters, the gamers,

the artists, the band geeks, the drama kids, the punks, the rockers, the Goths, the metal heads, the wannabes, the foreigners, the weird kids and last but not least the actual normal people. This in the end made it that much harder in fact to pinpoint the actual classification of the table the girl had finally reached, but judging by the people sitting at it he'd probably have to go for the loner losers. "About this morning, I'm sorry for having got in your way, it's just all of this is a lot to take in."

"Don't worry about it. It's the first day back for everyone so I think everybody just wanted to make it to school on time," replied the girl as she placed her tray on the table and proceeded to eat her food. Judging by her attire, Kurt could tell that if she were to ever appear on the Fashion Police, not only would she get ripped apart from the likes of Joan Rivers and Kelly Osborne but also every poor viewer in the nation, because not only was what she was wearing hideous, but also eye wateringly revolting. "I'm Rachel Berry and this is Artie Abrams, Mercedes Jones and Tina Cohen-Chang."

"I'm Kurt Hummel. I've just transferred from Columbus High School," replied Kurt as he started introducing himself to Rachel as well as Artie, who resembled a wheel chair bound nerd, Mercedes a sassy black girl with some serious attitude of the good kind, and Tina who appeared to be an overtly shy Goth like girl who hardly acknowledged or even looked his way. He didn't know whether to take that personally, but he brushed it up in favor of his introduction. "I moved to Lima last Saturday but I haven't really had much time to explore the town and what it has to offer."

"Lima isn't really known for its sights so you might as well save your time and do something better," commented Artie as Kurt moved his gaze to the wheelchair bound boy, who was flicking his empty milk carton aimlessly around his tray. Kurt had once heard that the milk they served in schools never came from cows but from rats, and ever since then he'd been put off by the cartons, always cringing at them in disgust. "I really don't like this town. It doesn't have much to offer and everyone here at this school will always pick on you if you show the slightest hint of being different. It sucks."

"I understand what you mean. When I went to the mall two days ago, these jocks from this school hurled a homophobic slur at me," explained Kurt, everyone at the table widening their eyes. Really not a single one of them should been surprised since it was a typical jock like activity to do, it was in their M.O. after all but to know that the poor new kid here was already putting up with onslaughts of not so nice comments was something that was majorly disheartening to them all.

Yet, not only was it quite a pinch to their hearts when before them was a boy that was not only a new, but also the most innocent and kindest looking creature they'd seen in McKinley for quite some time. Kurt did not look his age at all. He didn't appear sixteen at first glance. More like thirteen going on nine. So youthful. "I mean I tried to get past them undetected but not even being subtle saved me. It was quite shocking, and then to find out they come here made it even worse."

"Who were the jocks?" asked Mercedes as Kurt sighed to himself, picking of his fork and rustling his lifeless salad as he stared at it sadly. The diva may have had an idea of who might have been the culprits but a definite answer was a request in this situation. "If you tell us their names or describe what they looked like then we can tell you who they are. I mean some of them are so dumb that I heard one drove to the airport, saw a sign that read 'Airport left', turned around and went home."

"Oh my God, you're not serious are you?" exclaimed Kurt in amusement as the table burst out into laughter, the sombre mood lightening as the pale boy giggled at the story. Subsiding from their still chuckling faces, Kurt brought himself back to the day and tried to remember his attackers but to be honest, it really didn't take that long. The evil expression on the boy who had shouted the taunt would most likely never leave his mind at all.

"Well, I don't know their names but there was the one who shouted the insult at me. I'm not going to tell me what he called me. It's too rude, but the guy has a Mohawk and he's quite muscled and tanned, in fact I saw him this morning making out with this cheerleader against a locker and I swear, the way they were going at it, it's amazing they didn't fall through the metal doors, get sucked up into another dimension and then got spat out into a scorching hot incinerator."

"Oh you mean Noah Puckerman," confirmed Rachel as she, Artie, Mercedes and Artie shared looks of frightened horror causing Kurt's uneasiness to come back full pelt. Obviously this Puckerman boy was quite the bully in this school judging by his peer's faces and to think he was his latest victim was just icing on the moldy cake that no doubt reeked the same odor as the layers of gel used in the boy's mohawk. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. He's the running back on the football team making his status like sky high in this school and of course, like every other popular person here, he exploits it to his full advantage."

"Yeah you don't want to go pissing him off because he will rip your head off or of course make your school life here a living hell if decapitation wasn't enough for you," continued Artie as Kurt blinked at the seer seriousness in his voice. It really did look like Puckerman was going to be a force not to be reckoned with if he had any chance of surviving. Come to think of it was such a cliché, like a teenage high school film.

There always had to be someone to look out for, real life just had to follow in the footsteps of the movies dramatizing them for audience entertainment.  _Sadistic shits._ "I mean I've never been bullied that much by him because I'm disabled which renders me untouchable if you will. It's hard to believe if even he has standards but then he just goes and proves you wrong by hurting other people for fun. I mean I really don't know what's wrong with him."

"He's an ass licking dick face that's what he is," confirmed Mercedes as Kurt giggled at the not so imaginative insult. He turned around to catch the goings on the cafeteria behind him and as he roamed the hall, his eyes landed on the table that had no doubt been lowered by the devil's minions themselves. "Yeah that's the jock table all right with their stupid Letterman jackets and low IQ riddled minds. The only reason why the girls in the school seem to overlook all the crap Puckerman does is only because, and I'm afraid to admit, he has major sex appeal. That's it."

"He is good looking and because of that he flirts with every single pretty girl in the school," agreed Rachel as she followed Kurt's line of sight to watch Puckerman eat, talk and mess around with his fellow monkey friends. They certainly weren't the most civilized of boys around by far but as Rachel lowered her eyes to Puck's jeans, she couldn't help but bite her lip in interest. Whatever was under there, whatever was hiding itself beneath a centimeter of freaking material was reportedly the largest endowment that had ever been gifted to a McKinley teenage boy.

She hadn't of course seen it, but she'd heard about it and judging by the way his jeans strained occasionally from one particular sitting position to the next, the claims of a mouth-watering bulge seemed to be very much true. Pulling her sight away just in case she was caught staring by Kurt, who was at this time eying her with a curious gaze, as if he knew exactly what she was lusting at, she ploughed on. "He's slept with nearly every Cheerio in Ms. Sylvester's squad and there are rumors circulating that he sleeps with cougars as well when he goes and cleans their pools."

"Ew," cringed Kurt, shuddering at the horrible images of a seventeen year old having sex with women nearly three times his age. Prostitution and pedophilia were honestly not attractive subjects to be breaching over afternoon lunch but considering a high school boy was intertwined in this lifestyle, he couldn't help but become curious. "He must suffer no doubt about it from some kind of sexual disease if he's going to proclaim himself as the school's man whore. I've never heard a teenage boy do that. That's so disgusting plus if you ask me; he's not even really that hot."

"Excuse me?" asked Tina incredulously, as Kurt whipped around to face her, surprised that she was actually talking to him let alone listening to him. Yet the face she was pulling was as if he'd sprouted a large sex toy on his forehead. There she was just gawking at him and as he sat there, shifting uncomfortably yet at the same time deciphering what the problem was, Tina had probably come across the first person around not to find 'sex on a stick' Puckerman attractive. This really was a first.

It had been reputed amongst the many Cheerios and other girls lucky enough to have found themselves in the hunk's bed that not only was he supposed to have been so amazing at 'eating pussy' that one girl had claimed that she had fallen unconscious when she had cum, but that they had never been more wet or fucked hard every which way than by him. To Tina at least, the rumors were definitely intriguing.  _I would so want him to pilot his jet into my flight path._

Blushing at such a thought, Tina cleared her through and tried desperately to force her skin to resume its usual olive tone of beige. In the end, it was rather easy as she remembered where she'd left off. This Kurt kid not acknowledging a fact. Puckerman was hot. End of. "The boy is steaming hot. How can you say he's not? I mean, he's got an athlete's body, he's tanned and he's got a handsome face that when you're on the receiving end of his flirty winks, you'll just die inside."

"I'm sorry but speaking from a gay point of view, yes I'm gay, I just don't see the attraction. He's obviously a brute with no character or personality and even if he does have something remotely interesting about him, it'll no doubt be something as mind motivating as a levitating frog or a dead strawberry," replied Kurt dismissively, going back to start eating his food as Mercedes smiled in agreement. Witty yet sharp insults from a mouth so sweet looking, it was quite a surprise.

Kurt knew very well that hormones at this stage of someone's life were wilder than any other stage but seriously did that have to have an adverse affect on common sense? He liked to believe he was more sensible than most and what made him want to rip his clothes off and offer himself was not what every other delusional girl wanted. "Besides his jeans are probably infested with nasty critters from his various sexual escapades and where I ask, do you see the attraction in that?"

"I think you're going to be very popular on this table Kurt," chuckled Artie as Kurt raised his head to see that all his new acquaintances were muffling their laughs with their hands, even Tina as she begrudgingly smiled at his jab at the jock. Trough this, Kurt realized his rant must have been said with so much distaste that the comedic side of it had shone through. It shone like beaming spotlight. "Keep bashing the jocks around us like that and you'll never be turned away, ever."


	3. Glee Club

"Hey faggot, I've got a little fairy juice for you!" shouted Puckerman as he went to stand in front of Kurt and aggressively threw a cherry flavored slushy at him. The brunet winced as the thick beverage hit him square in the chest, ruining one of his favorite white polo tops and gasping as its front now sported a large scarlet stain. From afar, it could have been misconstrued as a shot wound and at that moment, he wished it had been.

He'd been given no time to begin fully comprehending what had just happened and no time to save his own skin from any more twisted abuse before he was violently shoved into the locker next to him with an echoing clang. Wincing in pain, he brought his pained sight to see Puckerman grinning spitefully back at him, satisfaction written all over his face. The was the one real sign of one sick fuck. He was thoroughly enjoying this and Kurt could only stand there and pray for him to die.

Puckerman smirked as if he had just successfully killed someone he'd been planning on butchering for so long, before joining in the laughter of his Letterman peers and continuing his way down the parting corridor. However, it just wouldn't be the cherry on the cake without the final insult. Unashamedly, barking back at Kurt with a final chilling taunt, Puckerman let his cruel words whip through the air with a crack. "Oops! It missed your fugly face! Better luck next time, fudge packer!"

"Oh, my Lacoste top," muttered Kurt miserably as he looked down at his ruined appearence, the slushy seeping down into his black skinny jeans before soaking itself into his briefs. Slushy was the worst. He was going to have to work twice as hard to remove the stain and his fingers had not been made for scrubbing. He just didn't know where these asshole jocks got that idea from. Huffing, to himself as forced himself to remain in one piece. He was not going to crumble. He was not.

It was his second day of school and he'd only left third period when he'd had to go to his locker to select the appropriate text books and folders when out of nowhere, Puckerman had appeared holding a slushy with two sniggering jocks either side of him. He'd maliciously thrown the beverage at him and left him with no chance to defend himself. It was positively humiliating and as Puckerman bellowed in laughter at the act he thought was so intelligent, Kurt looked around the corridor. still rooted to the spot. Students had stopped in their tracks to either look at him with extreme hilarity or to whip out their phones and snap a picture of him that no doubt would be circling the school as well as the internet within seconds.

"My own personal hell I believe," said Kurt to himself as he made his way to the boy's bathroom to clean himself up. However as he neared the entrance, Tina and Rachel came striding round the corner, chatting animatedly before silencing themselves from the horrible yet familiar sight of a friend in desperate need of help. Kurt could only nod in defeat as he once again looked down at himself. A perfectly good top that seemed to have been properly soaked right through until it hit skin. Moist skin.

Raising his gaze to meet their shocked eyes, both girls could have sworn a slight tremble could be seen on those ruby shaded lips, a shade even redder than the actual stain itself, yet Kurt kept face. It was quite an impressive thing to behold. This boy really had strong stuff within him, especially in the midst of mocking eyes that were not forgiving to the bone. "Hi guys, I've just been made a target for slushy missiles. Please attach an actual aim so that next time, they'll hit bull's eye."

"Oh you poor thing, come with us," proposed Rachel as she looked down at the giant stain and made to bring him towards the girls bathroom which only served to make Kurt think why on earth was he allowing himself to enter. Thankfully, no one was occupying the rest room and as they made their way through, the pale boy could actually feel the ice cold drink solidifying and permanating itself on his top. "Is this the first time you've ever been slushied? Because you might want to bring a second set of clothes with you from now on."

"My old high school didn't have slushy machines at the jocks disposal so they didn't throw anything my way, well except rubbers and pencils," explained Kurt, as he was lead towards a sink where a chair had been tucked underneath the counter. This sight only made to make him frown deeper. If they were going to start using the chair for what he thought they were going to use it for, then was slushying as common and practiced by jocks against the 'peasants' of the school?

Were they as popular as locker shoves? He hoped not, but something within him made him realise that whatever he hoped for would have very little to do with anything with his Latterman oppressors. "These slushies are so much worse. I mean the outfit I spent time organizing has been ruined and people just stood around me snickering after it happened. Are they actually mentally deficient? Or are they so socially inept that they border the classification of butterfingered morons?"

"They're definitely morons with butterfingers."

"God, I feel like Carrie when she has that bucket of pig's blood dropped on her."

"Oh wouldn't it have been so cool if you could have used telekinesis to reverse Puck's throw so that it landed on him."

"Or better yet, blow his brains out."

"Well in any case, you have to fend for yourself in high school if you aren't in the popular crowd," explained Tina as she directed Kurt to sit on the chair before handing him a moist towelette to wipe off the sticky remnants off his neck and chin. It seemed to do a good job of removing most if not all of the cherry beverage off his skin, but there was nothing he was going to be able to do about the stink of artificial fruit that was no doubt going to linger until the end of the day like a pungent reminder. "In freshman year, Rachel, Mercedes and I were bombarded with slushies by Puck, who I'm assuming threw it."

"He's such a dickhead. I mean how can anyone like him? Seriously, any similarity between him and an actual human being is purely coincidental," replied Kurt as Rachel proceeded to remove his polo top, making sure not to get any more liquid onto his face and head as she did but leaving him topless in the girl's bathroom. He never thought he'd be in such a sticky situation, literally, but here he was, having him and his clothes pathetically rescued from their tainted state. It was just so depressing.

The low temperature in the restroom was causing him to subtly shiver. He could actually feel the goosebumps rising to the surface, yet the one thing that prevented his teeth for clattering like a xylophone made out of bones was just the sheer amount of heated anger surging itself towards that mohawked shit face. He really had half a mind to find the boy, rip his balls off and roast them in front of him. "Do the cheerleaders do this as well? Do they go around throwing stuff at people?"

"Not really. They believe they are more mature than that except they're really, really not," explained Rachel as Tina pulled out a black women's tee-shirt and skinny jeans from her bag before handing them over to the shivering boy. He had been hoping for material that was a little thicker and not to thin looking but it would do for now. "I mean you've got Quinn Fabray, who's arguably the prettiest girl in the school, but who used to be a total bitch last year. I think she's calmed down since then.

Then you have Brittany Pierce who's like the classic bimbo and airhead on the Cheerios. She's pretty much harmless when it comes down to it because she's too nice to say anything insulting, but she's so dumb that one time, she asked someone what time it was and they replied something along the lines of 3:34, to which she said, 'You know, it's the weirdest thing, I have been asking that question all day, and each time I get a different answer.' No lie, that's what she said."

"That is… rather embarrassing I must admit," replied Kurt as he got up from his seat, walked into the nearest cubicle and began stripping off his jeans which had unfortunately made themselves nearly impossible to remove due to the slushy. The pale skin on his legs had tinted themselves to a light shade of pink by the time he'd removed the item of clothing, made not only from the amount of high friction used by disposing of his jeans, but also because of his nice little slushy surprise.

This surprise had evidently been on a mission to coat every inch of his body in sticky goo, but to him at this moment, it might as well have been super glue with a strong essense of articiful Cherry mixed into it. God, he hoped Puckerman choked on the stuff, or even better, drowned in it. What a sight. "You know, just as long as this Pierce girl doesn't do what that Neanderthal Puckerman boy does, I'm fine with her no matter how stupid she might be. Is there anyone else I should be weary of?"

"There's Kitty, who's pretty much a meaner version of Quinn. She's very conservative and she constantly stated that Obama was going to lose the election which he didn't, obviously, so you might want to stay clear of her, and last but not least you have Santana Lopez, head cheerleader," continued Tina as Kurt walked out of the stall, his ruined clothing hanging over his arm. It was going to be so much fun to wash them. Not. The follow up to his homework, a real dessert equivalent to a mean.

Going to stand in front of the mirror, he began with his free arm to flatten out any creases that had appeared in his completely shade consumed outfit. "She's the scum sucking road whore and queen bitch if you will of the squad and will practically do anything to get her way. Seriously, last year she convinced a woman to get an abortion just because both she and her husband were 'ugly' which meant their child was going to be 'ugly'. Bitch."

"What does she look like?" Asked Kurt as Rachel disposed of the used moist towelettes before handing over a plastic bag to Tina for him to place his ruined clothes into. He didn't know to be certain if his clothes were ever going to truly look the same again, and if he ever was going to be able to wear them with ease when all they reminded him now was of this mess. He wasn't looking forward to shopping for plain looking clothes at cheap department stores just to protect his wardrobe.

It would resemble an uninspiring uniform and everyone who knew Kurt knew how much he disliked uniforms. Everyone looked the same and upholding your school's reputation wherever you went like some sort of child ambassador? Teens really couldn't care less. Well, most didn't anyway. "I really want to be putting names onto the people I see instead of just going 'the one with the two pigtails and fake breasts that move independently from their main frame'."

"Well now that you mention it, Santana did have a boob job sometime during the summer and Sylvester went mental with anger," explained Rachel as they quickly left the girl's bathroom to walk to Kurt's locker, the brunet feeling slightly more comfortable now that his new set of clothes were dry. The corridor had decreased its population of sniggering morons only to leave a clear coast of some nerds by their lockers and the janitor cleaning the small trophy display further down.

However, there was the nagging feeling in Kurt's head that there was always the chance that the outfit Tina had lent him was going to get ruined again by the mohawked monkey, so who knew if he'd leave the school by the end of the day with any clothes on his back. After all, this was so not the day to go streaking. "Don't get me wrong, they look great, but alleedly they feel like shit. Like two rocks. She nearly got demoted from being head cheerleader after the whole thing actually."

"Well I guess she must be low on self esteem then which is very strange for a girl in her position," commented Kurt as they reached his locker. He deposited the plastic bag in it, fetched his things for his next period and firmly shut the metal red door. "But then again I believe girls in her position tend to be the ones who opt for plastic surgery more than others. It's always about rendering yourself more beautiful when in fact; you just end up with either a ridiculous pelican pout stuffed full to the brim with industrial toxins or something else equally as horrific. I mean people might as well be throwing fish at you. "

"Well I don't think Puck minded at all. He's her boyfriend and when she first got out of the clinic after the surgery apparently they didn't leave his bedroom for days on end," commented Tina as Kurt cringed once again before leaning against his locker to prevent his head from becoming too light. By the sounds of it, this Puckerman character was shaping up to be not only a product of an incestuous pregnancy gone wrong but also an example of a mutant strain of hyperactive sexuality on crack. "I know it's ridiculous. I mean I know there's nothing more hormonal than a teenage boy and maybe a pregnant woman but come on, there's got to be a limit right?"

"Well let's just all hope that he screwed her so hard that there's nothing more down there for her to use except for something that resembles the mutilated mouth of an octopus and as for him, I hope his oh so big cock chafed so badly afterwards that he'll never be able to have an erection again due to the extreme pain that will only be remedied with emasculation," replied Kurt maliciously as Rachel and Tina's eyes went wide before smiling back at him evilly, their giggles only being shared between them all. "I know it's a horrible thought but I'm certainly not going to pray for their well beings."

"No, but you wishing what could happen to them is so much more entertaining," smiled Rachel enthusiastically as Kurt noticed down the hall, Mr. Schuester pinning up a piece of paper on the activities board. Even from where he was standing, it wasn't very eye catching next to all the other sign up sheets but its bold lettering intrigued him. "I mean I hate them and all but you seem to really have it in for Puck and you've barely known him for a day… Kurt?... Kurt what is it, what are you staring at?"

"Glee club? What's Glee club?" asked Kurt as he made his way over to the board to closely observe the white piece of paper which had on it auditions for a club he'd never heard of. Back at his old school, he'd never been a member of any popular club. His social life hadn't exactly thrived and as a result he'd admittedly been a lonesome teen, wanting to spend as little time in school as possible. That and most clubs running were sport based. Not exactly his cup of tea.

Kurt knew very little of academic fixtures that were popular within the school programs, especially here at McKinley, but this Glee club looked different, and he was intrigued to find out more. It looked like something he could actually have fun doing. After all auditions could only really mean one thing: performing, and if was according to others a 'performer' in reality, then the stage could definitely broadcast such a talent. "Is it something that runs here at school? Does Mr. Schuester run it?"

"Oh my God, Glee club!" shouted Tina as she jumped up and down with excitement, Kurt flinching as she shoved him out of the way to write down her name at the top. "You know Glee club Kurt. It's like show choir. You get to perform in front of others, showcasing your talent and proving to everyone that as a team anything truly is possible! I can't believe it's coming back! If enough good people join we'll be able to perform in competitions and everything!"

"Oh, singing," replied Kurt as he looked from the ecstatic Asian girl to the audition sheet for the club, the pen still widely swinging from side to side. His voice wasn't his most admirable feature he had to admit. The majority of everyone he'd come across had commented, without thinking of course, especially mindless children that he sounded like a girl, which in itself was a good enough off putting statement for never saying more than was absolutely necessary.

As a result of this, adopting the 'never speak until spoken to' rule often came usefully into affect, but it was still painful when he was picked to answer a question in class, even if he knew what the answer was. Heads would turn, eyes would roam. It was so embarrassing. "I can sing, but I don't think I'm good enough to be in a choir club and doesn't it require you to dance because I can't really do that at all. I mean I pretty much fall down every time, I have terrible balance and co-ordination."

"If you can wave, do jazz hands and sway from side to side, you can dance," explained Rachel as she too took up the pen to write down her name. Kurt had to muffle a laugh when the girl pulled out a gold star sticker and placed it alongside her name because seriously, wasn't that something elementary school teachers did to congratulate young children on a piece of work they'd done well on? Well, whatever floats her boat he guessed. Maybe it did her good.

"Kurt, I bet you have a great singing voice," continued Rachel, highly intent on persuading him to get on their side. One thing however he could say was that this girl really was passionate about show choir. Overtly so. "You speak very uniquely and calmly and if that's a judge, then I don't think you have any problems. Just please come and audition. We don't want the club to be dominated by girls. We'd like at least one boy alongside us. It'll encourage more to join."

"I really don't think it will," countered Kurt as he shook his head, feeling immediately guilty when he saw the smiles on both Tina and Rachel's faces disappear. They'd just helped him wipe up Puckerman's delinquency off his designer clothes so he did owe them. It was only the right thing to do. "Fine. If you really want me to join you then I'll give it a go. I'm not promising anything amazing, not by a long shot, but I think its time I start getting involved in extracurricular activities like this."

"Yes!" exclaimed Tina as she performed a little victory dance, Rachel bursting out into laughter as Kurt joined in the amusement. Turning around, he grabbed the blue point pen and neatly wrote his name below Rachel's alongside her immature gold star, which he had to remind himself to ask her about. She was sixteen after all. "I'm so going to perform  _I Kissed a Girl_  by the Queen of Kooky herself Ms. Katy Perry and I think I know what you're going to perform, Rachel,  _On My Own_ from Les Misérables. What are you going to sing Kurt?"

"I'm not sure as of yet but I do have a song in mind," replied Kurt as he tapped his finger against his chin in thought, knowing very well that both Tina and Rachel were awaiting a response, their bodies leaning further and further into his already tortured personal bubble. "Guys, there's no point waiting, I'm not going to tell you. You want me to audition for Glee club; you're going to have to be patient until then because my lips are sealed. You might have given away your songs of choice but I want mine to be a surprise..."

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

_Life used to be a gay thing, a filled with happiness night and day thing_   
_It was something to have and to hold but it seems that your love grew cold…_

Kurt was currently at the Glee auditions being held in the school auditorium and after Rachel, Tina, Artie and Mercedes had sung their own songs much to Mr. Schuester's delight, it was finally his turn. As every single one of the others had performed their amazing covers of well known hits, Kurt's forehead had begun to sweat, so much so that he'd had to blot at his glistening forehead with an oil absorbing sheet under the cover of darkness. There was no way he was going to be as good as the rest of them since he merely sang around his bedroom when going to bed or in the shower whilst washing himself.

It was such a painful cliché. Plus the one other thing he did seem to worry about was the fact that every single one of the others were singing ballads or songs on the topic of love, love lost, or hope in spite of true love lost. His chosen song wasn't at all depressing really, even if it was about romance and he had started to worry that maybe he'd chosen the wrong tune, maybe black comedy wasn't a genre appreciated on the McKinley Glee club panel. There was no possible way he was going to be able to impress anyone what so ever.

_I never knew that our romance had ended until you poisoned my food_   
_and I thought it was a lark when you kicked me in the park but now I think it was rude_   
_I never knew that you and I were finished until that bottle hit my head_   
_though I tried to be aloof when you pushed me off the roof, I feel our romance is dead..._

He'd timidly ascended the stage on shaky legs that barely supported him let alone carried him, made his way to the center and stood before his audience in front of the spotlight which seemed to leave him feeling more exposed with each passing minute. He'd looked down at his friends who were softly chatting amongst themselves and were looking back up at him with extreme anticipation, their blind smiles rendering them completely unaware of his current frittering state.

It didn't at all make him feel any better but as he announced the name of the song and the artist, Mr. Schuester pulled a pleasantly surprised expression and had allowed him to begin. The lights had dimmed, plunging the hall into darkness and the instrumental had begun with the soft tingle and jingle of the piano's first notes. He was wondering how he was going to be received because after all, the first song he was going to sing was the song he was forever going to be remembered for, if it was either good or bad and to tell the truth, he loved this song. It was cute and fun and it was a crowd pleaser. _Please may I please this crowd. Justice to my attempt._

_It wouldn't have been so bad if you had told me that someone had taken my place_   
_But no, no you didn't even scold me, you just tried to disfigure my face_   
_You'll never know how this heart of mine is breaking, it looks so hopeless but then_   
_Life used to be so placid, won't you please put down that acid and say that we're sweethearts again..._

The best option Kurt thought was to really get lost in the music and as he attempted to sing his heart out to lyrics that really had no relevance to him, he felt like the nerves he was feeling started to founder slightly. The song was supposed to be comically romantic with a sweet undertone to an otherwise dark overcoat and seeing as it was meant to amuse the audience; it'd been even harder to get the timing of the actions that accompanied the song precisely right. He'd practiced an awful lot in his bedroom, so much so that his father had heard him and had asked to listen to him.

Unfortunately, Kurt had refused to have an audience at such an early stage and though that was yesterday, he still thought that a lot more time could have been given to him to perfect his performance as well as his vocals, which seemed to be alright but nothing to boast about. He moved around the stage energetically, bringing the microphone with him, his faces innocent and cute. However, after a couple lines he could have sworn that bouts of laughter had erupted from his small audience which, really in the end, finally brought a genuine smile to his face. It really was a perfect form of encouragement before commencing the comic monologue like bridge, his life filled expressions once again breathing life into the song.

"Remember that night in Bridgeport? When the moon shone down on both of us and the breeze sang a love song, and you looked at me and I looked at you and you didn't know what to do? So you broke my leg. I thought there was a strange look in your eyes but then you smiled and it made everything all right. Then there was that lovely time when we went canoeing and you set fire to my clothes. You said you pushed me overboard to put out the flames but I could never understand why you held my head underwater for so long. Course I've never met this person whose taken my place but I want you to know I wish you all the luck in the world and if there's anything I can do, anything at all, you can reach me at room 304 at the general hospital. Farewell my sweet."

_You'll never know how this heart of mine is breaking, it looks so hopeless but then_   
_our love is great, no love can match it, darling please put down that hatchet_   
_and say that we're sweethearts again! Yeah!_

As he completed the chorus, the piano melody began to close off to its major end causing Kurt to let out a sigh of relief as his singing part was now over. He'd stayed, he thought, in tune and he hadn't forgotten his lines. _Would have been nearly impossible having replayed the song like one thousand, one hundred times,_ he thought as the song ended. _Well here goes, let me have it._ As the lights rose and the spotlight faded, he looked back up at Mr. Schuester. The man was jotting down notes on the piece of paper in front of him at such a speed that it was amazing the paper hadn't caught fire. However as Kurt watched him scribble and scribble and scribble again, he began to fidget. His fingers laced themselves together as he made to walk off the stage but instantly halted when the teacher shouted out to him.

"Stay there Kurt, you're not finished yet," announced Schuester as the brunet froze on the spot only to shuffle back into his original position. It was obvious that the professor was planning to read out his impending verdict on the performance but he was interrupted as a round of cheers and applause rang out from below. Kurt brought his eyes down to see Rachel, Tina and Mercedes on their feet whilst Artie remained seated; all of them enthusiastically crying out in wonderment as Mr. Schuester also rose from his seat to applaud him. "That was great Kurt! Really good!"

"Thank you, Mr. Schue," thanked Kurt as he bowed nervously before his grinning friends soon ascended the stage to see him. He didn't know that his performance would receive such a positive reaction and the way everyone was smiling at him just made him want to ignore his nerves and sing yet another song. Okay maybe that was reaching a bit far but sometime to that effect. "I didn't want to audition at first but I'm glad you liked it none the less. Thanks again."

"No problem Kurt. You did very well; all of you did which means you all have been accepted into the Glee club. Congratulations," announced Schuester as Rachel and Tina burst into screaming hysterics, Mercedes and Artie high fiving and dancing in joy whilst Kurt stood there in front of the teacher, smiling broadly. "Yes, that's right you've all managed to get in. The club will be run every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons after school starting next week and I expect every single one of you to be there all right, no excuses. We have a lot of work to do and by all means, bring along song choices that you believe might suit as all as a choir alright?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Schue," agreed Mercedes as she came to stand behind Kurt, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, the brunet turning around in surprise as she flashed him a friendly smile, which he reciprocated eagerly. He was now part of a musical club. His first musical club. A club he actually liked the sound of and a club he had been successfully accepted into without any begging or crying involved. This was certainly a fixture worth sticking around in. "I think we've worked hard to get in the club so you can count on us to appear, don't worry."

"I like the attitude Ms. Jones, keep it up," smiled Mr. Schuester as he made his way down the stage steps and towards the exit. However before he could leave, he stopped and turned around, all the teens watching him. "Oh yeah I almost forgot. You are all representatives of the club now and we need at least twelve members if we're going to want to compete in regionals alright, so if you could recruit as many people as you can as soon as possible who you think show real promise that will be great. I'll also be keeping an eye out as well but it should also help that we will be performing in front of the whole school next Monday in assembly to spread further awareness of the club."

"Excuse me? You want us all to perform in front of every other student here in assembly? Mr. Schue I don't think that's such a good idea," stumbled Kurt as his face paled tremendously from the thought of singing in front of all his peers, peers consisting of the cheerleaders and the jocks including Puckerman, the resident douche bag. _Yes, I've entered a new club. Pity it's going to be the death of me._ _Literally._ "I think that if you want us to really show off the real talent this club has, you'll give us all more time to prepare. I mean you're not really giving a lot of time for practice. Can't we just postpone it to a later assembly date?" _Like never maybe?_

"Kurt trust me, you are going to be fine. Now I know the thought of performing in front of a large crowd is frightening but you mustn't allow that fear to cloud your decisions, alight. Ignore it and just keep on doing what you love," encouraged Mr. Schuester as he began to pace back towards the stage, instantly noticing Kurt's shoulder's starting to shake at the faint inducing premonition of rotten tomatoes, vegetables and horrible, horrible slushies being thrown at them on the day. _Oh the horror. The horror!_ "You're not going to do a solo Kurt, you're working as an ensemble, as a team, together with your friends so just think of the work being split between the five of you, okay?" _  
_  
"Don't worry Mr. Schue, we have this thing in the bag," announced Artie as the teacher in return nodded in approval. Looking briefly back at Kurt before offering him a sincere smile, Mr. Schuester headed out of the theater, the double doors swinging wildly as they banged loudly back into place. _Well this is going to be mortifying to say the least,_ thought Kurt as he turned around to catch Mercedes looking back at him with worry. _Dead boy singing._ Rolling himself up to the brunet, Artie stretched out his hand and patted his arm reassuringly, Kurt acknowledging the supportive gesture. "Kurt, dude, you were awesome up there and I loved the song. It was so black comedy which I loved. Who's the artist again?"

"Virginia O'Brien. She was a popular 1940s American actress, singer and radio personality I came across when I first saw _Meet the People_ ," replied Kurt as Artie nodded with interest. It wasn't exactly a film they might have seen except for Artie who was apparently the avid film fanatic in the club but it was good to share libraries of personal favorites. "I must admit I didn't really like the song when I first heard it but when I came across it again when watching a 90s Batman cartoon episode I got back into it and decided to take it. Plus I knew it was a song I knew none of you guys had heard and I didn't want to sing something everyone has pretty much become sick of hearing."

"Well you definitely hit it out of the park white boy. To tell you the truth I was surprised you can actually sing that high, I mean I would have thought you would have had to sing it an octave lower," observed Mercedes as Kurt laughed silently. That was another thing that caught people off guard, his high voice. He'd been significantly self conscious of it when he had been in his early teens seeing as every other boy's voice had descended into a more appropriate pitch for upcoming adult hood. He on the other hand was of course the exception in nature's case as he quietly nodded his head in agreement; everyone picked up on the fact that this had always been an issue. "Is that why you're nervous about singing? Because you're self conscious that it's higher than the average male range?"

"Kind of, which is why you could tell why I don't really want to perform in front of the entire school," replied Kurt as both Rachel and Tina rubbed his arms in a consolatory way. It was obvious they were nicking a page out of Artie's 'Ten Greatest Steps to Avoid Freaking Out' in a vain attempt to cheer him up but it was nice all the same. After all, he couldn't count a lot of people who touched him in friendly manner apart from his father. Now that was something to be more worried about. "I know what everyone else is going to say. They're all going to taunt me on how unnaturally feminine it is and so on and so forth. It's just going to give that ass wipe Puckerman more ammunition to use against me."

"Don't worry Kurt, we've got your back," assured Artie as Kurt smiled back down at the boy, who was acting very confidently as he said it and provoking the girls to giggle in amusement. "We've all been on the receiving end of that mohawked prat's insults so we know exactly how you feel. We'll prove to everyone that we're not losers. We'll prove to everyone that what we're made of is ten times better than anything those jocks will ever be able to hold a candle to."

"Way to say it Artie, we'll show them all," cried out Tina as she high fived him only to stop jumping up and down and face the rest of the group, their bodies unusually rigid and awkward. _Oh no,_ thought Kurt as he noticed in those set of seconds that not one of them had a proper idea of a comeback performance for the club, which only served to agitate him further. "So… erm… what are we actually going to sing? Anyone have any ideas because I'm stumped."

"I don't have any at the moment but I'm sure it won't take long to assemble a list of possibilities," replied Rachel as she brought out her pink iPod touch, switched it on and began scrolling down her library of songs as Mercedes sneakily peered over her shoulder, judgment etched all over her face. "I mean I just bought this yesterday and I didn't have time to sync my whole music library of show and pop tunes onto it so I'll have to either tell you all tomorrow or I can email you all the songs which might be a better option. Kurt's what's your email address?"

"It's Kurt Hummel at Hotmail but what's all of yours because if I too find some stuff, I can let you all know," suggested Kurt as Mercedes yanked out a pen from her pocket, grabbed hold of his arm, pulled up the black sleeve and began to jot down her email address. Normally he would have protested since his sensitive skin was being mercilessly written on which couldn't at all be good for it but he was new here and he didn't want to cause a fuss or anything. "I think it may be helpful next time to actually use a pad of paper seeing as the ink is more perishable on my arm than it is on anything else... that and that pen is sharper than it looks, believe me."

"Relax Kurt, it'll be fine," assured Mercedes` as she returned the pen to her pocket after everyone had written their addresses on his arm, which had reddened slightly from the sheer amount of friction used. "And don't worry about Puck and his friends. You think they're retards and that the mohawk looks like he's been caught in between a mutilated ape and a visible fart so it really shouldn't matter but if they do try anything I'll just plain and simply cut them. It's not that hard."

"Cut them? That's going overboard don't you think?" inquired Kurt as Tina, Rachel and Artie scoffed at each other indicating to him that Mercedes was one girl not to be reckoned with. He'd as of yet to find someone who held within them enough guts to defend themselves against their Letterman attackers but it seemed that the search was over. After all, he'd been dying to find someone to deliver his insults to Puckerman, may his apparent 'God' like body get crushed to disfiguring proportions by a steamroller and then bricked up in a nunnery. Such fun, but he didn't know whether he should have felt flattered or terrified because judging by the dangerous glint in Mercedes' eye, he knew she wasn't bluffing. "Maybe not…"


	4. Assembly

The day after all their successful auditions, the newly reformed Glee club had entered the choir room at lunch time to discuss the selection of songs that Rachel had all emailed them the previous night. Kurt really had to think that no wonder the girl's iPod had taken so long to sync because the list she'd emailed them all was the size of a monster with around a whole minute of his time being taken up with scrolling down to the bottom. She had sent around two hundred songs for them all to explore, all ranging from the musical genre to the pop classics and modern rock and as a result, a large groan had escaped everyone's mouths. Kurt had taken it upon himself to search for appropriate material having discovered various talented independent artists whose music showed real promise but after receiving Rachel's continuous files, he'd not bothered in the end.

There was no point piling on more onto the already teetering pile, Kurt had thought as he sat at the black grand piano and observed his peers. Artie was wheeled up next to him, repeatedly throwing a soft ball up and down in his hand with so little enthusiasm that it started to really bring the game 'catch' into perspective. Tina was sitting on the piano sprawling through scores of music that had been left behind by either the Jazz band or the orchestra and last but not least Mercedes, who was playing Tetris on her iPhone, her eyes building and her tongue sticking out in avid , here they all were. One happy, happy family. Sometimes sarcasm was the only thing to amuse oneself with but it could only for so long.

They had arrived approximately fifteen minutes ago and Rachel had yet to appear which Kurt found very odd. He didn't know the girl that well but the passion certainly shone through her eyes. He also didn't want to make everyone think he wasn't serious about the club seeing as he had enjoyed hanging out with his new set of friends who unfortunately didn't share that many periods with him with the exception of homeroom. Closing his eyes and bringing his bored gaze to the ticking clock, he sighed to himself. It was totaling seventeen minutes that they had been waiting and with lessons restarting within the next ten or more minutes, the first practice or get together for the Glee club had effectively failed. This was not going well at all.

It was disappointing and disheartening to say the least but then again it did strike hope in Kurt that if by the end, they approached Mr. Schuester only to say they hadn't been able to squeeze in enough time for practice sessions and that there were always chances in the future, then they wouldn't have to perform. This is what he desperately wanted to happen. He didn't know if everyone else thought the same way but they couldn't have been Teletubby happy about it either. Especially considering since news had circled that the Glee club had restarted and that it only pathetically consisted of the loner losers including the new gay kid. It was enough to put anyone off, but that was one thing Kurt didn't know about the club until now, that it was the lowest of the low. Gutter low.  _Well if it's going to go on like this, it'll be low enough to dig our own graves._   _Fun!_

After joining Glee yesterday since this morning, every single one of them had been subjected to high school torture, and no one had been lucky enough to be spared. Why Kurt had driven himself to school this time and as he was just about to enter the school doors, several pairs of hands had landed roughly on him, wrenched him to a large disgustingly foul smelling dumpster, stripped him of his bag and jacket and mercilessly thrown him into it. The brunet had, like the first time he'd been made fun of being gay at the mall, been shocked. The slushies, the locker shoves and now the dumpster tosses. Seriously, these boys were no doubt going to grow up to become the next round of thugs of the next decade.

Nothing they did was done with a second thought. They all acted on pure animosity ruled judgement with nothing better to do. Why couldn't they all just check on Ebay if they have lives for sale. It would be a far more constructive way to spend their time. At least it would be something Kurt would do if he were them. His sense of smell was mercilessly attacked by the putrid stench of rotting fish, gone off cheese and other vomit inducing trash that fueled itself out of that wretched cafeteria. Of course as he had been assaulted, he'd not properly seen his attackers since it had happened within the space of thirty seconds, but he had managed to catch a glimpse here and there of a jock in a red Letterman jacket and a mohawk. Figures.

After he had tripped and fallen whilst hauling himself out of the dumpster, grazing and finally cutting his palm as he landed heavily on the ground below, he'd picked up all the contents of his bag which had been widely strewn several meters around the lot, though as he desperately tried to find his bag, he had finally found it thrown up into a high branch of a tree, dirt and spit marks littering its black leather sides. It was painful to witness but there was no way he was ever going to climb to recover it and reach his first period on time. It just wasn't feasible. So after he'd made his way towards his locker, having to stuff his arms with all his folders and having to use a plastic bag for all the smaller items, he'd came across Tina, who had just come out of the Nurse's office, rubbing her injured and bruised shoulder from what looked like a very sadistic locker shove.

It was depressing to say the least and as the day wore on, he had later found out that he and Tina had not only been the casualties of Puckerman's vicious army of jocks. Mercedes had apparently received a slushy to the face, yet the one thrown at her had not only been super sized to gigantic proportions but had contained within it thicker and larger chunks of ice that only served to further seriously humiliate the poor girl. Artie on the other hand, although claiming that he couldn't be touched at the already drenched and bloodied hands of the mohawked boy had found himself locked in a porta pottie under the bleachers. He knew that if he hadn't been there screaming and shouting for help, no one would have been able to recover him, even if he had been in there for two solid, smelling hours.

As a result, by the time, they were undergoing the road to slow recovery, they were all wishing for the same thing: revenge. However, in their weak states and less than physically impressive physiques, no payback war of any kind was going to be fought on the high school battlefield. Suicide was not an outcome worth experiencing at the hands of Puckerman, whom they all wished would just slip into something more comfortable, like a coma. Then there was Rachel. Come to think of it Kurt hadn't seen the girl all day and it was puzzling to say the least. She was a primary target as well as all of them so how was it that her screams of protest just like every other glee member had not echoed through the halls?

Maybe she had seen the whole thing coming. It was a plausable idea that came to mind as Kurt traced a finger along the black and white key, the soft, polished wood caressing his skin from underneath. Or perhaps the girl had seen what had happened to all of them and decided to save her own skin and flee like the star sticking, arrogant girl that she was. Kurt sighed again because there really wasn't a reason why he should feel anger towards the girl but just as he was about to announce to everyone that they'd better gather their belongings together and postpone the meeting until after school, Rachel came pelting in, breathless from obviously sprinting.  _Well it's the least she could have done._

Her face and hair were sopping wet, water cascading down her skin as she came to stand at the foot of the piano but her clothes were very much dry. She had with her several pieces of paper which she dumped onto the top of the piano, some of the scores she'd brought flying off the surface and landing on the ground next to her. She swooped them up and made to organize the mess she had made, completely oblivious to all the other members eying her with confusion and amusement. Tina hopped off the piano to grant the girl more workspace as Artie tucked his ball away and rolled himself closer to a heavily panting Rachel. Kurt straightened up from the piano bench and Mercedes ended her game of Tetris, tucking her phone away into her pocket. Finally, as her breathing became less erratic and more even, Rachel brought her eyes up to see them all.

"You all are going to have to forget about the songs I sent you all last night because we are not doing a single one of them," she announced at all of them as they gaped at her with combined expressions of annoyance and agitation, Kurt rolling his eyes as he went to lean his elbows on the piano and resting his head in his hands in exasperation. "We are going to compile a whole new list of musical possibilities because the ones we have are simply not good enough for us."

"Hello?! You're the one who selected the material, compiled the list of two hundred happy-go-lucky songs and sent them all to us!" Cried out Tina as Rachel brought her serious eyes to look at the fuming Asian. She may have sent over a ton of material to everyone, but it's only because she knew best. They'd all be lost without her. "Some of them weren't even that bad to be honest. Why have you suddenly changing your mind? And why by the way are you twenty five minutes late?!"

"I apologise very much that I couldn't join you all for the start of the session but I was held up alright, I don't want to talk about it," replied Rachel indignantly as she pointlessly shuffled through the stacks of scores on the piano causing Kurt to frown at her sudden guarded behavior. Somehow, the cause of Rachel's wet appereance reeked of jock. Mohawk jock. "Let's just use the five minutes we have and then we'll pick off where we left off here, after school. Can everyone make then?"

"We're not using up any time until you, Little Mermaid, start explaining to us all why you're late and why your hair is leaking a pool of water on the floor," argued Mercedes as she pushed past Tina to point angrily at the water, Kurt rounding the piano to see the small of clear liquid forming around Rachel's feet. "I mean what the hell happened to you Berry? Did someone shoot you with a water gun or something? A water balloon maybe? I mean talk about frizzy; your hair has gone curly as hell."

"It was a pee balloon actually. Thrown by some of the jocks who were hiding around the corner to ambush me before lunch," seethed Rachel as Mercedes continued staring at her sopping wet head, Artie quietly muffling his chuckling as Kurt threw him an amused smile. "So now you know, can we all just drop it? We're here to plan for our performance, not discuss my embarrassing part of the day where I smelled like urine. You're now the ones wasting time."

"Well guess what Rachel, you're not the only one who got attacked today but yet we still managed to get here on time," argued Tina as she gestured to everyone, Rachel looking at every single face situated around the grand piano. It was like she was on trial. "Kurt was dumpstered this morning before school, I was locker shoved after the first period, Artie got locked and trapped in a portable toilet for two hours and Mercedes here got a slushy facial with side helpings of ice. Don't think you're the only victim of being in Glee club alright, because every single one of us is hurting just as much as you are."

"Well I got attacked just now actually. I had to rush to the bathroom and wash my hair and face so many times I think there's only a single layer of skin holding me in. Plus I had to change into another set of clothes because the ones I was wearing are now scathed with human yellow waste," countered Rachel as she grabbed hold of her hair and began squeezing out the excess moisture, leading more water to fall onto the water with a small splash. "I'm sorry but I just couldn't go around the school for the rest of the day let alone this meeting smelling like the bowls of Neanderthal alright so just be grateful."

"Well it doesn't matter anymore we've only got a minute until the bell rings so I guess we'll have to officially start practicing after school," sighed Kurt as he made to collect his folder and plastic bag which he had rested against one of the piano legs. "But quickly before we go, why the change of heart over the songs? I'm kind of annoyed that I had to stay up until one in the morning listening to every single song you emailed us only to learn now that we're not going to use a single one."

"I'm sorry Kurt, but I have to say no to them all. It pains me to think you took a lot of time out for Glee and I'm sure Schue will be pleased about that but we just can't perform any of them," replied Rachel as she threw him a sympathetic look, Tina and Mercedes rolling their eyes in displeasure as the girl pointlessly apologized. "And I say this, not because of vain or narcissistic reasons but because we have to prove to the whole school that we have more than just stage presence and talent."

"Rachel, that's all the judges at these choir competitions ever look for, what are you talking about?" Asked Artie as he wheeled himself closer to the brunette. She looked down at him with determination sparkling in her eyes; a sparkle signalling that a girl's mind was already in the work's for something even if it hadn't come out of her very mouth. See that was the thing with Rachel. She always got it the wrong way round and it only served to annoy others. "I mean at this early stage that's all we need to prove right? We have to prove to everyone that we can do the basic things right like sing and dance."

"No Artie you're missing one important thing and it's crucial to any real performance that's worth watching and paying attention to. Teenagers have no problem keeping their eyes away from this in any circumstance," replied Rachel as she smiled at the confused and awaiting expressions on her peer's faces. "Sex appeal. We need to bring sex appeal to the stage and performance, because if we don't then it'll be that much harder to capture everyone's hormonal induced attention."

"And none of the songs you selected can be made sexy what so ever? I'm sure there must be a few, there were two hundred of them for God's sake," whined Kurt as he leaned against the piano in further infuriation, his foot subtly stomping on the floor in protest as if he were a child who had been forbidden from visiting the playground. "Come on Rachel, we don't have time to switch tunes, we need to chose one now preferably today so that we can start practicing like hell."

"Look the only reason this has just sprung to mind is because after I was attacked in the hall, Puck criticized me for having no sex appeal and that every single one of us in Glee club especially you Kurt had as much sex appeal as a wet carrot or at best, a rotting plank of wood," continued Rachel as she nodded in the wake of the gasping that followed, Kurt straightening up in shock as he narrowed his eyes dangerously. "I know it hurts to be brought to attention so rudely but he's not far from the truth. All of us don't exactly set libidos racing."

"Well excuse us for not wanting to disconnect ourselves by becoming exploitable objects of no value. Not everyone wants to act as the stereotypical vessel waiting to be filled by squatting over a small hand mirror. Some of us actually like to keep our dignities intact. Some of us have brains," replied Artie defiantly as all they turned to look at him in firm accordance, their nodding heads signalling they agreed just as strongly. "Even if it's the cool thing to lose your V card in high school, it doesn't mean you have to do it and it certainly doesn't mean you have to dress as cheaply as Miss Sandbags Lopez."

"Well we're just going to have to prove them wrong won't we? However, in the end, even if we do succeed at proving them otherwise, they're not going to admit they were mistaken. They'll just cover it up," continued Kurt as Rachel threw him a worried look whilst Mercedes and Tina exchanged anxious glances with one another. The jocks would never admit they were wrong. Most men couldn't in general, but if they rubbed the smug removing proof all over their ape like faces, the loss of an argument would soon be dragging down their inflated egos. "But in any case it's something we can all still look forward to doing right? So Rachel what have you got?"

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

"Hi everyone, so you've no doubt by now learned of the Glee club returning to McKinley," announced Mr. Schuester as he stood in front of the microphone in the gym, every single student looking back at him with either extreme boredom or bleak interest. It was Monday morning and people were grumpy, cranky and not in the mood to leave the weekend behind. No one had been in the spirit to properly take in what Mr. Figgins had said about the unprovoked food fight in the cafeteria last week, resulting in several students ending up in the nurse's office to be treated, amongst other injuries, steaming hot custard facials, and lumpy cafeteria custard at that.

It was disgusting but now here Mr. Schuester was, hoping to lighten the mood with entertainment, liven up the atmosphere with a comeback performance of the 'New Directions', a new start, a new beginning to the once defunct club. However as little or no movement was seen in the many stalls in the hall, apart from the odd cough and possibly the occasional cliché like cricket in the background, backstage was another matter. Behind the blue curtain, everyone was on high alert and in full on panic mode, footsteps running, banging, hearts racing with fear-induced adrenaline. "In the past, the club has proven to be successful and I mean to bring that success back here once again."

"Kurt could you tighten my corset up, I feel like it's loosening," asked Rachel as she approached the boy who was as pale and as any white as any bone. Ever since their drastic change in number direction, the Glee club had squeezed as many hours of practice until this day as was humanly possible but even though they had prepared themselves for the club's comeback, all of them were suffering from the muscle inducing nerves.

"Kurt, it's okay, everything's going to be fine. All of our vocals compliment themselves and I'm sure we'll do justice to the song, all right? Just remember not to belt and force your voice, we're going for breathy baby talk, you know? Channel sexual, husky, busty, buxom babe whatever. Whatever you think we'll make them want to descend those bleachers, rip your clothes off, lay you on that floor and enter you. Now can you please tighten me up? "

"Sorry, Rachel… sure," answered Kurt as he snapped out of his daze and proceeded to adjust her corset. Rachel, Tina and much to Mercedes' annoyance were dressed in elaborate costumes inspired by Marie Antoinette and 18th Century French fashions but with a modern twist. All three of them indeed looked breathtaking but at the end of the day, looked more like they were modelling luxury lingerie outfits for an Ann Summers or Bordelle runway show.

Their corsets were beautifully crafted with French Chantilly lace whilst the cream ruche elastic lines on the sides enhanced their hourglass shapes. Not a single one of them until now had ever felt more feminine and as they held within their hands their feather filled fans decorated with shining sequins accompanied with Georgian bouffants, adorned with exquisite garden flowers, plumes and butterflies, they couldn't also help feeling incredibly desirable. "Are you sure you really want to wear these? Won't they be difficult to breathe in?"

"Kurt, the outfits accompany the song and they all go with the whole theme of the performance. Not only do we all look sexy but also you know as well as I do that if we don't dress at least a little provocatively, it'll just make it harder for us. The people out there need some kind of stimulation. We're providing the foreplay, we're turning them on. Why else do you think boys read porn or go to strip joints," reasoned Rachel as she looked over Kurt's tense shoulder to see Tina wheeling Artie into place, Mercedes assuming her position as well, who by the looks of it, was going to faint any minute.

The girl had complained earlier that her breasts were going to pop out of her corset if not loosened and the last thing she wanted was to pull a Britney Spears in her 'If U Seek Amy' music video. It seemed Rachel must have written her measurements down wrong and now here she was with suffocating boobs. "Kurt, be glad you and Artie are not constrained to wearing such stomach constricting clothing. Believe me what you've got on leaves much more to the imagination."

"Rachel, get into your position now, Mr. Schue's nearly finished his intro speech," whispered Tina harshly as she beckoned with her whole arm for the brunette to come away from Kurt. As she did, the pale boy looked down at his own outfit and sighed. He, along with Artie, were wearing bone white skinny jeans, black pressed shirts, white suspenders, pastel blue bow ties and aqua toned 1920s men's shoes that definitely felt more fitting than they looked. In the end, Rachel had been right.

It was very stylish and a far more comfortable outfit than what the girls had on considering they weren't on four inch Christian Louboutin Dillian Pumps and having their organs painfully rearranged inside them, but just because he and Artie weren't in extreme discomfort, it didn't mean they too couldn't feel at least a hint of attractiveness within them. "Alright everyone get ready... Kurt move a little to your left... little further... too much... stop, there you go. Alright."

"Ladies and Gentlemen I give you the New Directions!" Announced Mr. Schuester as he began to clap enthusiastically, the students of McKinley awkwardly following in his wake as they glanced at each other warily. The lights in the gym dimmed and the curtain rose to reveal the Glee club in various sultry positions, fans obscuring half of the girls' faces as their low lidded smoky made up eyes began to seduce everyone in the hall. For Kurt, he'd never felt more awkward.

He had never purposefully acted on a flirtatious level in his life. Not even when he'd lipsyched to songs way too explicit for a boy his age. He'd never even pretended to in the mirror, which he supposed didn't render him completely narcissistic. However, judging by everyone else on the stage, with their suggestive poses and open chests, he guessed they had. He had to channel someone sexy, some with class, but above all sexy. In the end, he chose himself. He could only really channel himself and for this he could be sexy. He was here to be sexy, and he was going to be sexy. The center spotlight flashed on and with it, the instrumental. A few meters away sat Mr. Schuester, praying the club on for a good performance but as soon he saw them all begin to dance to the swinging guitar like intro of the song, his mouth gaped.  _Oh no..._

_I wait underneath the covers all night beside you  
_ _and who could ever question any crying I do?  
_ _My heavy heart is beating out a rhythm all night inside me  
_ _and I fall a little harder every time that I do..._

Rachel strutted forward with her blue fan in hand and began seductively waving it near her face. As the small amount of wind ruffling the stray hairs around her hairline and ears neared her lip-glossed lips, some of them got stuck, causing her to smile. This was perfect. Knowing this as something that drove boys crazy, she slowly pulled her hair from her lips and pouted invitingly, making sure as much light glistened off her gloss. She was soon accompanied by Mercedes who began walking around her, both of them never straying their eyes from their onlookers. _I just hope this works,_ thought Kurt as he Tina and Artie swayed erotically in the background, their faces like Rachel and Mercedes' inviting the audience further into the heated performance. _Please God, make this work._

_Watch me living it up, you totally_   
_Got me stuck in a rut you made for me_   
_How am I going to step up and say to you_   
_I get the feeling boy I want you, I want you..._

Rachel and Mercedes backed away as both Artie and Tina brought themselves to the front. The boy wheeled himself to the center of the stage whilst Tina stood behind him, her hand traveling down his chest as her head descended to his ear. Artie exposed his neck to her lips, bare and ready to accept her bite. As she brought her head in and then back up, Tina ruffled his hair whilst singing, bringing up her hand and beckoning him as he neared her. Meanwhile as Rachel and Mercedes joined Kurt in the background, their wrists constantly working as their fans repeatedly waved in the air, the pale boy was slowly starting to become more reassured. This performance was sexy, they were sexy and they were going to prove to everyone that they were nothing but. Hopefully.

_That conversation is tough because you're totally,_   
_Walking around all the stuff you want to say to me_   
_Words are never enough, oh baby, baby you turn my dust to gold..._

Finally, Artie and Tina snapped themselves out of their little game of cat and mouse and strutted into center stage, every move never feeling more attentive in its life. Little did they know that on the lowest tier of the gym bleachers, Mr. Schuester had his head in his hands, repeatedly shaking it from side to side, as he brought his gaze up. This was not the kind of comeback performance he was looking for. It wasn't doing the kids any favors at all. It wasn't showcasing the real talent they had presented him at the auditions. Long masked away was the beautiful solo of Rachel's, the profound performance from Artie. Everything had been covered up in favor in what he believed to be the victim of peer pressure since the only real thing they were attempting to sell here was mindless, run of the mill, done a million times before, sex.

_I can't speak French so I'll let the funky music do the talking, talking now, oh_   
_I can't speak French so I'll let the funky music do the talking, oh, oh, oh_   
_I can't speak French so I'll let the funky music do the talking, talking now, oh_   
_I can't speak French so I'll let the funky music do the talking, oh, oh, oh..._

All five of them assumed a straight line in the middle of the stage and began dancing in sync, their moves quick to move to the beat but still carefree and relaxed to reflect the soft smooth jazz like sounds of the guitar in the instrumental. The choreography wasn't all that complicated since all it consisted of was the wagging of fingers, the shaking of their asses and the popping of the hips. Fairly easy. However as the song continued, Kurt's knees subtly quivered. He was next. He was next to sing, his part was rapidly coming in the next few beats and as the thought terrified him further, the more extreme his body shook. Rachel noticing the lapse in posture, shot him a look, but it wasn't one of anger or annoyance but one of reassurance. It was a look that reminded them that they were doing this together. No one was getting left behind. No one, and with that, he confidently stepped forward and sang.

_I got to let you know, I want to give in to my temptation_   
_and let my feelings show, I got to let you know_   
_I got to let you know, I want to give in to my temptation_   
_And let my feelings show, I got to let you know..._

Kurt descended the small raised platform that barely deserved to be classified as a stage and walked further into the gym, Rachel at his heels. Turning around, the boy began dancing with her, her fan stroking his face as he closed his eyes in pleasure. Meanwhile back on the stage, Artie and Tina were dancing together and all seemed to be going very well. Very well indeed until the Asian, with a sudden lapse in judgement, accidentally pushed the boy's wheelchair with too greater force, leading him to rapidly roll uncontrollably across the stage and fall off. Artie's chair capsized as he was thrown to the ground with a cry of pain.

Thankfully, the volume of the music had concealed the sound but nothing could conceal the sight. Tina yelped in shock as she rushed to his side but as a result, didn't notice Mercedes across the stage, growing gradually weaker and weaker from not being able to breathe properly. The lack of air was preventing her from singing and with each passing minute, with each passing second, the corset tightened. Tighter, tighter, tighter it fastened until finally with a set of stumbled short steps, trying desperately to regain her position, the diva collapsed. She fell hard to the ground as her figure now remained unmoving, laying there unconscious for all to see.

_I can't speak French so I'll let the funky music do the talking, talking now, oh_   
_I can't speak French so I'll let the funky music do the talking, oh, oh, oh_   
_I can't speak French so I'll let the funky music do the talking, talking now, oh_   
_I can't speak French so I'll let the funky music do the talking, oh, oh, oh_

Kurt and Rachel, suddenly noticing the lack of voices in the chorus looked back toward the stage in horror at Mercedes' unmoving body. The pale boy almost lost his voice as he observed the terrible sight before him but as she was dragged off the stage by the crew, Tina waved frantically back at the lighting managers to shine the spotlight on them, desperate to bring back all the attention to the now remaining performers. Rachel, much to Kurt's surprise became the one to panic. Her legs were wobbling slightly and she was looking back at him with frightened eyes. Both of them were now the only support beams to the crumbling performance, which was toppling all around them.

However as the saying 'the show must go on' suddenly echoed itself around their heads as a flashing reminder of who they were and what they were doing, they were both brought the determination needed to bring it all to the end. Rachel looked at Kurt, the pale boy looking right back encouragingly and so by the time the song had ended, both of them were panting and awaiting some kind of reaction from the ever so silent audience, but nothing came, nothing was heard or noted, except the poisonous round of uncontrollable malicious laughter coming from the jocks and cheerleaders.

Both remaining performers slowly looked in their direction, the house lights switching on to see some of the Letterman boys led by no other jock but Puckerman himself, playfully shoving each other and pointing at Artie and Tina. The handicapped boy had been quickly recovered from the cold floor and helped back into his chair by Tina, who was swiftly exiting them both off the stage with their faces shining bright with humiliation. Meanwhile, grabbing hold of Rachel's hand and squeezing it as he lead them both back towards the stage, Kurt felt everyone stare as their footsteps echoed around the now quietening hall.

They ascended the platform, the brunet looking back towards Mr. Schuester's saddened face, his features fully caved in with dismay and disappointment, and despite the taunting remarks from the jocks and cheerleaders, the look on the teachers face was the greatest hurt out of them all. They had failed. They had not done themselves any favors. Just failed. Failed the club, what remaining respect it had. Everything. Pulling away from the embittered sight, Rachel followed Kurt off stage, the pale boy not for a single second letting himself look back at the now hurriedly whispering school. They were failures.

"Artie I am so sorry, so, so sorry about what I did to you," sobbed Tina as both Kurt and Rachel entered the corridor behind the gym, the sound of the Asian girl's wails not so much as welcoming them but crying out to them as they neared. Kurt supposed that the absence of anyone except for them along the long deserted stretch coul be seen as conforting to some degree, but it just seemed to echo and heighten the failure that had descended on all of them all.

Turth was, it had all been a bad idea. The outfits had been ridiculous for sixteen-year-old teenagers to wear and falling for Puckerman's influential peer pressure was now just ravenously eating them all alive. They had succumbed so easily to the words of a boy, who now only seemed to feel like cancer to the soul, that they couldn't help but blame themselves for having been so easily manipulated. The sense of weakness was so sickening to them that they really were paying for it. Big time.

As Rachel started to blame herself for her being so gullible, they found Tina kneeling in front of Artie, the boy gently patting her shoulder and stroking her silky long black hair in a vain attempt to halt her crying and render her at least a small amount of successful comfort. "If I hadn't done what I did then they wouldn't have laughed at us! I ruined the whole show just because I wasn't careful enough! I hate myself for all the pain I've caused you all!"

"Tina, all is not your fault since Mercedes fainted shortly afterward so not all the blame is on you," soothed Rachel as she pulled the crying Asian from Artie's fully tear stained lap into a hug. Kurt then and there had to prevent himself from bursting out in laughter because right now, the poor boy had a huge wet stain directly above his crotch. Artie, noting the pale boy's inappropriate faces of amusement, followed his line of sight before quickly hiding the patch with his hands.

The poor boy's face could not have flushed more with embarrassment. It certainly was going to be difficult to explain the stain to Rachel's father, Hiram, who had kindly lent them all the extravagant designer outfits from a fashion contact in New York, without replaying Artie's pained reaction. "Try not to beat yourself down alright; it's not going to help you. We blew the performance but that's all right. It was our first so we can try again next time okay."

"Kurt Hummel? Is Kurt Hummel here?" asked a frightening voice behind the brunet as his eyes blew wide in surprise. He forced his body to slowly turn around to see a scary woman in a red tracksuit, blonde hair, fierce blue eyes and one serious face wildly looking around the corridor before her eyes landed on him. He timidly raised his hand to confirm his appearance but quickly retracted it back down again as the woman approached him, looming over him like a sinister monster of the deep.

There was nothing at all good that was going to occur from spending any time with this woman, he could just tell. It wasn't rocket science but as she scanned his smart attire topped with nothing more than the most dishearteningly innocent yet charming face she'd come across in a long time, she came to a conclusion. There was someting about this boy. "Ah, so you're Mr. Hummel. The new boy or 'super homo' as I've heard every other student here refer to you as. Can't say I blame them. I mean could you look any more like the ghost of Christmas gay? Come with me now to my office. We need to talk…"


	5. Cheerios

Kurt walked shyly out of the boy's locker room and headed towards the playing fields. After yesterday's bomb of a performance, he had been approached by the Cheerio's coach and the school's resident Queen of Hell, Sue Sylvester. He hadn't at all wanted to follow the menacing looking woman to her more than likely Chamber of Doom, instead much rather wanting to see whether Mercedes was still on this earth as well as to prevent Tina from flooding the whole dressing room with her monstrous tears. However, as the woman had cast him a look that obviously meant she was going to rip him to shreds if he didn't oblige, he had nodded and followed her into her office like a leashed dog, its whimpers high with fright.

Once she had closed the door and instructed him to sit before her 'altar' as she named it, she had not only bombarded him with insults concerning the Glee club, whilst also revealing unto him exactly how she had celebrated it's pitiful demise in the past, but also that their less than successful performance contained within it dancing with moves 'as sharp as a bowling ball', costumes that resembled 'tattered shreds of poor material from a cheap brothel commercial in the South Pacific' and them having as much stage presence as a 'speck of dust'. The pale boy had blinked several times as she had strung all those inordinate amount of obscene insults together like a woven tapestry of abuse, but he hadn't dared defend himself.

Sylvester had been on a roll and the satisfaction from each jab that come seeping out from her thin lipped mouth was so evident. Thankfully though, after a ten minute intense and might he say hardcore session of criticism, the coach finally came to the topic she had wanted to talk to him about, yet at this, Kurt had braced himself in his seat, his now sweating hands unlocking themselves to grab hold of the chair's creaking wooden arms. His heart had sped, his breathing had labored and his eyes had widened, only to frown with his brows hovering in confusion as Sylvester had let him in on what she had summoned him for. Kurt was now to be her new addition to her award winning cheerleading team, the Cheerios.

The boy had blinked. A Cheerio? Slyvester wanted him to be a Cheerio, and on an acclaimed squad that was the Chanel equivalent of cheerleading? Had she gone mad? Did she want to continue raking in the trophies? Indeed the offer was so unexpected that the coach had relented to explain her out of the blue proposition, smirking as she did. She'd stated that even if his debut in front of the entire school had been in a nuclear catastrophe of a club, and that its comeback performance (which she had assumed had been supposed to be sexy) had had as much erotic appeal as an 'overweight gnome', or better yet, an 'overweight gnome with erectile dysfunction', she had seen potential in him, real promise.

It was because of the unique quality she had noted within him that now found Kurt standing right at the edge of the playing field with the Cheerios on one side, and the football playing 'Titans' on the other. Both squads were in the midst of their warming up rituals and Kurt could not figure out for the life of him how they were doing it with such energy. The weather was excruciatingly hot for September and the sun was blaring unforgivingly down on them all. He would be impressed if they began their actual practice sessions without their uniforms drenched in sweat after such a gruel worthy work out, it really was that hot. Or perhaps he was proving to himself how ignorant he really was when it came to exercise.

Kurt was of slim build. He was neither over nor underweight, and he'd always believed his body was fine the way it was, since no issues had arisen because of it. It didn't necessarily mean he was toned or particularly strong, but he'd liked to think he was slender and lithe enough in posture to carry enough movement of a supple and elegant nature. However, despite this lean appearance of his, Kurt did not exercise. He'd always had the naive mindset that if he didn't binge on the carbs, there'd be no need to jog on a treadmill or look unattractive on an elliptical. Oh, how ignorant he'd been. Seeing this sea of physically fit bodies boasting such impressive stamina, such toughness and endurance. Kurt knew his attitude had to change.

Straightening his posture and wiping a hand down his new Cheerio outfit to rid it of any unwanted creases, Kurt made his way towards the cheerleaders. He was going to prove to Sylvester that the so called potential she had seen in assembly, that promise within him that had apparently shone under the stage spotlights, had not been a one off, that she had made a fine decision adding him to her team, something he was now grasping as one in a chance opportunity, and for him, quite an accomplishment, even if he was still skeptical about what exactly Sylvester saw in him. For this woman only played to win, and she didn't pick just about anyone. God forbid. if he proved her wrong about him, he'd never return from her office. Ever.

"Woah, waoh, woah, who the hell are you, and why the hell are you stretching that poor abused Cheerio uniform?" Asked a voice, Kurt approaching the squad of cheerleaders before him as he froze and whipped his head to see the same girl he had seen being pressed up against the lockers by Puckerman all those days ago. Her hands were resting on her popped out hip and her eyes were eying him mockingly, her smirk ready to set forth a cackle of malicious laughter.

This was the first time the girl had ever addressed him and she'd proven already to be a bitch by weaving together a question jabbing at his weight with a voice that had no problem grabbing the attention of every other cheerleader around. Humiliation already, and they hadn't even begun. "Wait a minute; you're that prancy smurf from Glee club, aren't you? You, along with your set of show freak friends were responsible for butchering an otherwise good song. God, you guys were shit."

"Coach Sylvester recently added me to the team just yesterday and this is to be my first practice," replied Kurt, ignoring not only the scathing remark concerning the Glee club's performance but the following round of sniggers ringing through the squad. He'd had had enough insults from Sylvester yesterday and he really wasn't in the mood to face another round of attacks from an unfriendly and an oppressive looking bunch of people who just didn't know when to lay off.

Kurt may have not been able to answer back at the coach, or even reject her offer to join the Cheerios for fear of disrespect and of course, life, but this was different. He was in front of people his age and he wasn't going to receive heat from a set of teens who appeared faker than Ken and Barbie cutouts. "If you must know. Coach Sylvester came to see me after the show and offered me a position, so here I am as a cheerleader, here to... cheerlead."

"Look Cinderfeller, if you can't even perform a dance routine that kids in kindergarten could do sedated, what makes you think you're going to be able to do what an award winning cheerleading squad does? Apart from totter around like the giant gay elephant that you are," sniggered Santana as Kurt finally remembered her name. This was the ice cold bitch who never thawed, the bitch who had rigor mortis set in before puberty and the bitch who most likely had her periods in cubes. Bitch.

Nearing him, a cruel expression on her face, Santana glanced at her fellow Cheerios, all them whispering and looking Kurt up and down with judgmental eyes. Yet the defiant boy stood his ground, rooted. "I mean seriously, who are you kidding? You're not even in the right shape to be here what with your pear shaped hips and less than good looking body overall. You're just going to be the fat tub of lard weighing us all down, the pudgy pretty pony that's going to cost us everything."

"Look, as much as I couldn't be more over the moon by your welcoming committee which I have to say, fails miserably on, I just would just like to the practice without any trouble," replied Kurt snidely, crossing his arms across his chest whilst unconsciously popping out his left hip in a sign of defiance. He had meant to be diplomatic, to not look as if anything of Santana was getting it him, but he couldn't help releasing the Ice King within him as she continued to try to walk all over him.

"I'm doing this because it's an opportunity," continued Kurt, "That and it looked like your coach was going to gouge my eyes out if I refused so if you have a problem with her new member take it with up her, not with me, and by the way the name's Kurt, not 'prancy smurf'. I mean, if you're going to hurt me, make sure your insults are of an 'award winning' quality fit for a cheerleading squad and not on a level 'sedated kindergarten kids' would use when their mouths can't move. Geez."

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Oklahomo Hummel come to reinforce his gayness by coming to dance with the girls," announced a taunting voice behind Kurt, the brunet frowning before looking round from a seething Santana to see Puckerman, flanked by the rest of the football team, their leering expressions sending a chill to run down his spine. Oh great. Now he was being sandwiched between the mohawked jock with his army of brutes, and Santana with her huge posse of plastic bitches.

Believe it or not, this was not the kind of sandwich Kurt usually had an appetite for, yet the opposite could be said for Puckerman. The boy was sniggering indecorously, his teammates doing the same as his next remark itched to leave his tongue. "Got to tell you Lance Bass, that performance in assembly was so hot I think I creamed my pants. Come crawling back to make yourself look more like a bender? I thought poofter pillow biters were supposed to be good at dancing."

"The only kind of crawling I'm doing to you is away... from, half-dick. Either way you've maxed out your repellence. Just merely joking on gathering sexual arousal with that circumcised deformity of yours over thoughts of me just makes me want to hurl on that ugly ass 'uniform' you're wearing. Not that it's an improvement to the stuff you no doubt fish out from clearance bins in tragic casual corners. I mean does everything you wear have to look like it's holding a grudge?" Asked Kurt coldly.

This vicious swipe served to erase the smirk right off Puckerman's face. Kurt had never answered him back before now. He had always taken their crap with a glare and a huff, but now, he was fighting back with what was sounding like quite a razor sharp tongue. "You know Puckerman, from the first day I saw you, your arrogance and conceit, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others, made me realize that you're the last  _thing_  in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to date!"

"Got a witty tongue you've got there lady face. Send it waggling like that again and I'll personally rip it up out of your mouth," replied Puckerman calmly, clenching down his fury as his fists cracked under the pressure. Wanting to throw Hummel off, he took a step towards him, and another one and another one until his chest protector was scraping the boy's chest. There he looked down at Kurt, his annoyance rising as the boy remained valiantly planted where he was, never moving a single inch.

Yet it was in that precise moment when their bodies came into contact with each other, their faces closer, that Puck noticed the brunet's blazing orbs.  _What the hell,_  he thought as he took in Kurt's baby blue eyes, eyes the color of the calm, peaceful ocean and of the refreshing rain.  _What... what is up with those eyes?_ "H-here that, pansy boy? Talk back to me like that once more and I'll do more than screw up your school bag that you bought from gay land and fucking beyond."

"What have you done to it? You threw it up that tree, but now its not there anymore. Where is it?" Demanded Kurt, Puckerman clapping his hands as a signal for one of the football players to bring forward the mangled and tattered remains of his Visconti school bag. Looking on in horror, Kurt took in its condition. There was nothing left of it. It had been properly ripped apart, spray painted a nauseating shade of green with 'Burn In Hell, Faggot!' written on the side in blood red ink.

With a thump, it was thrown unceremoniously at Kurt's feet in the wake of laughter all around, instantly bringing him down to his weak knees where he whimpered before it, his hands trembling like a child's as his fingers ghosted over the knife slashes, the cuts, everything. He could hardly bring himself to take in the remaining remnants of his bag, destroyed and mutilated beyond possible recognition. "Oh my God. Why the… why the hell have you done this?! What is wrong with you?!"

"What's wrong with us is that you're still here tainting our school as well as our town by wiping your sore ass on America's flag when it's our job to get you the fuck out of it. It's admirable that you gays think you can fight your battles with supportive shit spouted from your icon drag queens like Lady Gaga, Madonna and Cher but the truth is, you're nothing but a bunch of salami suckers drinking champelle out of fucking ballet slippers," replied Puckerman, smirking down at Kurt.

He watched as the jock beckoned Santana over to him, watched as the Latina obediently flounced right into his arms before earning herself a tight squeeze on the ass form her boyfriends large hands as it slithered under skirt cupped a globe deliciously. It was disgusting to witness. Kurt couldn't stand the squeal of pleasure escaping from Santana's lips. He couldn't bear Puckerman chuckling mischievously in return. He didn't want to be here. So as he coldly eyed back at the couple that he swore were of Satan's spawn, he got back up onto his feet, the shredded remains of his bag in his shuddering hands and stared them down with eyes that could burn with any more rage than they were now. He was positively livid.

"You see Queen Freak; you're never going to be accepted in society as a 'normal' person," continued Puckerman, "Being a fag is wrong, it's disgusting. You can't get married, you can't even fuck properly, you can't do anything! In life, you're just going to be an abomination of a human gone wrong and they're going to treat you like shit. Slurs, violence, you name it. There is no fairytale ending for you lot so in a way we're doing you a favor, preparing you for what's yet to come."

"You know, I didn't know a fountain of bullshit could come pouring out of a lowbrow nit wit's mouth like yours but I guess you've proved me wrong, and to think I thought you were capable of a decent impulse, proved me wrong, again! You're just living proof that evolution can go in reverse so congratulations, you're the real 'abomination' to the human race, dumbass," argued Kurt as he narrowed his eyes threateningly, his hands tightening around his ruined possession.

Eyes darkening, Puckerman's face once again began to descend into a scowl. It seemed that no matter what he managed to throw at Hummel, the boy would hit him right back, leaving the jock struggling with what else to come up with. Santana too seemed surprised by Kurt's unforgiving wit and as she looked on over at her agitated boyfriend, it was clear his patience was wearing thin. Right then and there, Kurt knew he shouldn't have been fighting back. It was a death wish. Getting pummeled so hard into the ground that he'd no doubt resurface on Chinese soil was a definite possibility judging by Puckerman's clenched fists, but the boy had so far crossed the line that he simply didn't care anymore. This needed to be said.

"Puckerman, you'll find any ignorant excuse to bully me from by sexuality, to my participation in Glee club, to that performance we did, to me being the new kid," continued Kurt, "You'll go through great lengths to find some bigoted reason to back up what you're doing and if you spend your time doing that as well as planning new ways to torture me then you have as much of a pathetic life as that Jacob Ben Israel guy, and that's saying something considering he's another one your victims."

Stop Kurt, just stop. His mind was begging him to stop but he just couldn't. Perhaps he'd caught the case of the insults from Sylvester. He was a real Cheerio now. "Why don't you just graduate with a diploma in mother fucking already, because isn't that all you're really good at? Committing adultery with fossilized vaginas? Yeah that's really bought you your fast track ticket to heaven hasn't it? I can now get what your oblivious girlfriend sees in you, you Lima losing blood sucking  _kike_!"

"Right, that's it! I warned you lady trousers, but I guess I'm going to have to slice that cock sucking tongue out of your fucking mouth!" Roared Puckerman, shoving Santana aside like a rag doll before launching himself at Kurt. There he grabbed a fist full of his Cheerio uniform and seethed in his petrified face, Kurt's skin paling. The jocks behind began to urge Puckerman on with a choir of taunts as the cheerleaders on the other side watched the confrontation with eager eyes.

No one in their right mind was willing to save the squirming boy. There was no competition. Kurt, when compared to Puckerman's sheer size and athletic physique, resembled a defenseless child more than ever and as tears sprouted from his eyes, the jock's large hands encircling his delicate neck like a python ready to squeeze the life out of its prey, he cried. "I could so easily tear your throat out. Everyone you don't want to miss this, I'm going to teach this little he/she whose boss!"

"Like hell you will, Jew-Bag mohawk! Get your grimy football hands off my new Cheerio and go back to rolling around in that pigsty you call a bed!" Barked Sylvester, every single head snapping in the direction of the voice as the cheerleading coach stormed towards them. Puckerman leered at her, looking back at Kurt with menace before annoyance fueled a cry out of him. He let go of the boy, Kurt gasping for breath and shoved him away with a forceful push so strong, Kurt lost his footing.

There the boy fell to the floor with a painful thud, his hands darting to his abused neck as he glanced back up at Puckerman with tearful eyes. The jock had retreated to Santana, was whispering something in her ear before he briefly kissed her and lead the football players back to their side of the field, his strides almost march like as they dispersed. "Get up twinkle tush," began Sylvester. "I can't have you on the floor when I need you on top of my human pyramid. Now move."

"Human pyramid? But Coach Sylvester I'm not even experienced for something as advanced as that. Are you sure you don't want me to start off small and then work my way up?" Inquired Kurt as he raced to get up, bringing his bag along with him as he struggled to keep pace with the striding coach. She made her way over to her desk by the bleachers, depositing the giant red megaphone she'd used to boom at Puckerman with onto its wooden surface, and turned to face him.

All the cheerleaders had since snapped out from their bloodthirsty states of recreating a Roman audience to a gladiator fight, and had sprinted back to their side of the pitch, resuming their stretches and pushing themselves even harder than before as if apologizing for taking an unauthorized pause. None of them wished to become the next bandaged casualty of the dragon lady. "It's just that I'm new here and I don't share the same experience as say Santana does. Do I have to start at the top?"

"You'll do as I say lady lips, now dump whatever the hell you're holding in the trash and stretch with the others. We'll be choreographing the new routine today in five minutes so go," ordered Sylvester as Kurt sighed in defeat. He trudged towards the dumpster at the end of the field, not even bothering to shoot glares at the football players across from him, lifted the heavy lid and threw his ruined bag into its depths, closing his eyes as he did to simply shield himself from the pain.

In some ways, he didn't want to ever say goodbye to his own little Visconti treasure, no matter how much the jocks had gone out of their way to desecrate it. It had been a birthday present his mother had bought him when he'd been in elementary, a gift reserved for when he'd enter high school. She'd made him smile when she'd described how he'd be able to hold all his books and folders in a classy messenger bag made entirely out of fine Italian leather of vintage tan coloring. She'd claimed that if he took good care of it, that he'd look after it well, that bag would go on to last for many, many years. Maybe accompany him to his first job interview, but sadly, that would now never happen and all Kurt could do was mourn his loss.

"Kurt?" Came a quiet voice from beside the dumpster, the boy ceasing to shiver with grief before lifting his head, wiping away the loose tear that betrayed him with his hand and regaining his posture before turning around. A lovely looking girl with blonde hair tightly tied back into the signature Cheerio pigtail was looking back at him apologetically, her eyes shining with sympathy and as he was just about to speak, she swiftly stepped forward, stopped him, raising her hand as a signal.

Kurt closed his mouth obediently and relented to hear whatever this girl had to say, since judging by the reassuring smile she was offering him, he might have been looking upon the sole Cheerio who hadn't looked as if she had been dipped into Lucifer's pit. Yet the girl said nothing. All she did was take in the red rimmed state of his eyes, his bruised neck and general lack of will to live until she surged forward and engulfed him in a heart warming hug, her arms cradling his defeated body.

"Oh... thanks... er, who are yo-"

"I'm so sorry, Kurt. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, I'm-"

"No, it's not. I can't believe what they did to you and your bag."

"Oh, well you know it was just a bag," muttered Kurt as the blonde fixed him with a stern look, "that my mom got me before she died." Gasping as if almost in pain, the girl brought him in for another crushing hug. Yet before Kurt knew it, he was the one who was now comforting the blonde. It sounded as if she was crying for him, that her hands were gripping onto him and bringing him into her as much as possible. Yet as awkwardly nice as this was, he knew he wasn't completely innocent.

Back during his confrontation with Puckerman on the field, instead of ignoring the jock and walking away as if he hadn't been worth his time, Kurt had stood his ground and fought against the homophobic heat wave that had seared hotter than the sun itself. Yet only now did he regret it. Kurt was accepting of all religions, but to use a derogatory term against Puckerman's Jewish faith, that had been quite a blow. Neither was Kurt peniaphobic. He knew his family was wealthier than most in the school and much wealthier than Puckerman, but to use the jock's wardrobe as a way of insulting his poorer family made Kurt want to be sick. He'd brought himself down to a level on par with his bullies and there was no sweetness in his revenge.

"You know, I wasn't exactly nice to Puckeman either. I said some things too," began Kurt as the blonde pulled back to look at him, her eyes as predicted, wet. "I'm sorry, it's just to me that boy is just pure cruelty wrapped in jackass packaging. I've barely been here a week and I've been slushied; locker shoved and taunted more times than I can count. I just... I really don't think I have the energy to fight this monster you have for a running back because that's what he is. I just can't do it."

"And I'm going to make sure you won't have to any more. Don't think you're alone, Kurt. Believe me there are others who hate that Lima loser as well as that girlfriend of his, Tweedle Fake Boobs," smiled the blonde, quickly wiping away her tears on her hand with her grin widening at the giggle Kurt set forth at the reference to Santana. Poor boy, beautiful poor baby boy, thrown into the midst of it all. She was going to take good care of him, away from acrylic claws of her teammates.

Wrapping her arm around his shoulder, the blonde led him back towards the field. The Titans were now practicing their tackles whilst the Cheerios were being herded very much like cattle into their positions and as he glanced at the girl next to him, she smiled. "Come by my house tonight. I want to get to know you Kurt, away from homophobia-ville and bigotry central." Nodding, Kurt agreed, his hopes of making friends who actually liked him apart from those in Glee club rising.

"Oh and by the way, the name's Quinn."

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

Sitting himself down on the bed, Kurt placed his hands neatly in his lap and looked around Quinn Fabray's bedroom. It was quite sweet if he said so himself, very feminine. The comforter he was sitting on had a patchwork design consisting of apples and strawberries mixed together as if they'd all fallen onto the meadow ground from the very same tree. The walls were white with the word 'amour' lightly printed in the swirling wallpaper, the shelves surrounding her in built desk were lined with framed photos of her with friends and family including her pet white Labrador, Vanille, and the general color scheme of candy floss pink and pistachio green added the finishing touches to a room that Kurt wouldn't mind finding himself in again.

After his first Cheerio practice, the boy had very much been wiped clean of any energy that he had stowed away for the rest of the week. No breaks had been bestowed upon any of them whatsoever and Sylvester had choreographed a whole dance routine to a three-minute song in the space of an hour, bashing every move again and again into their heads until they got it right, shouting down their near bursting ears with her megaphone if even one foot was out of line. It had been torturous. However, what really had caught Kurt off guard was how easy it had been for everyone else to get through it all without breaking so much as a sweat a least a million times, and with that came a cold hard dose of reality: he really was that unfit.

After school, he'd phoned his father to let him know he was going home to a friend's house but his legs had been so weak that he'd ended up toppling out of Quinn's car when they'd arrived. The blonde had almost had to literally resort to carrying him into her house with the help of Brittany Pierce, who had also accompanied them both home, and now that he was sitting on a soft bed, he was now free to relax his body with some much needed rest. Yet he was not so much here to fall asleep as he was to get to know his new friends, with Brittany sitting at the head of the bed with her legs crossed and Quinn now entering the room with a bowl of cookie dough and a liter and a half sized bottle of what appeared to be A&W root bear.

She deposited the refreshments on the end table beside the bed and served everyone a glass, handing one over to Brittany and then one to Kurt, who could only smile as Brittany began to slurp down her beer jokingly. Despite agreeing with most that the girl wasn't the brightest around, Brittany had to be the sweetest creature Kurt had ever met in his life. She held an imaginative talent for inventing jollier alternatives for macabre words, her most recent creation replacing coffin with 'forever box'. She just had a huge zest for life, and whatever room she entered; it would immediately lighten up with a certain something that air freshener could not bring itself to touch, nor the amount of fresh spring air from an open window.

Sitting herself down with her own glass in hand, Quinn joined them on the bed. Yet instead of sipping at it in intervals like Kurt was doing and instead of pretending it was a cauldron with the chunks of ice floating on the surface were actually heads of children like Brittany was, she eyed the boy she had comforted earlier that afternoon. From where she was, it looked as if he needed his worries to leave him be, to be disposed of in some magic diaper genie meant especially for one's battered consciousness and bruised feelings. She watched as Kurt cradled the glass in his hands, resting it on his lap and as he raised his head to meet her gaze, he smiled back at her in thanks before the bed shifted and Brittany began to speak.

"I think I'm going to call you my Happy, Happy Unicorn Kurt," spoke the blonde, gulping down her glass before bringing her head to the ceiling in thought. Quinn and Kurt could only sit there, grinning. "But first things first. I'll have to marinade you overnight with the tears of a heartbroken leprechaun, bake you at 350 until a rainbow comes out of the oven, and bingo! It's what my cat Lord Tubbington says I have to do. It sets the magic within you so that it never goes away."

"I'm sorry if this is all a bit much for you," laughed Quinn. "I've never seen Britt here attach herself to someone so quickly before." Nodding, Kurt smiled as Quinn placed Brittany's now empty glass on the end table before walking on over to her stereo. There she flicked through the various radio stations until a downbeat track oozed out of the speakers into the room. It was suitable and ambiance often went a long way after stress-filled days fighting with Neanderthals in football helmets.

Hearing the faint scratching of pen on paper, Kurt glanced around at Brittany who had just finished jotting down his new name in her Strawberry Shortcake notepad. There he peered over it and noticed others such as 'Monsieur Dauphin', "Gum-Drop Garcon' and 'The prettiest boy in all Ohio'. "I don't think she's ever met a gay person before have you, Britt? Or one who's out anyway. By the way Puck's been treating you, I have no doubt many will be staying in the closet until college."

"I'd really rather not talk about that boy if it's all the same to you, Quinn. I've suffered from his hands at too greater price to be able to relax and have the name Puckerman in the same sentence," pleaded Kurt as his smile fell. Nodding, Quinn came to sit beside him, her hand weaving around his shoulder, but not before bringing the large bowl of cookie dough onto her lap where in it lay a wooden spoon lodged into the mixture. It did look rather tasty if Kurt said so himself.

However, he didn't feel like doing a Homer Simpson by simply burying his face in the bowl and ravaging it for all it had. There was something he needed to know that he'd been thinking about ever since this afternoon. Something he needed answering. "Quinn, why don't you like Puckerman and Santana? I mean, when you and I were by the dumpsters earlier, you gave the impression that you hated them as much as I do, but you're popular. Wouldn't that mean they'd be kinder to you?"

"You'd think so, but it just doesn't work that way, Kurt. In fact, the more popular you become, the more there are hungry to see you topple down the social ladder, and as for Puckerman, he's not popular, he's just feared. Fear controls people. I don't think anyone genially likes him. The nearest thing they harbor for him is hatred, like proper hate your guts hatred, and all because he treats anyone who's just the slightest bit different like dirt. It's just Puck," replied Quinn, honestly.

"For example, he's said on more than one occasion how stupid Britt here is. To quote him, he said: 'I could eat a bowl of alphabet soup and shit out a smarter statement than that dumb blonde.' Then there was that one time last year where he came onto me, but when I rebuffed him he went on a huge tangent about me being a frigid bitch who'll probably die childless with a shriveled old uterus, so I think, in the end, it's safe to say that we both hate that jerk."

"Has he always been like this? I mean, has he always been an asshole to everyone he comes across?" Asked Kurt as Quinn looked on over at Brittany in thought. The brunet was starting to find Puckerman, apart from being a massive dick, quite interesting to learn about, because for a boy to have such a high intent on hurting others almost to the point of being mentally insane, well, there had to be something wrong with them. Not everything in that head of his could possibly be intact.

"I don't think he was always like that, no," replied Quinn. "Britt and I didn't meet him until we were all freshman together at school so I can't really back that up, but it may have something to do with his early upbringing, I'm not sure. Psychologists seem to always link how weird you are with your childhood, until the parents get defensive and the next thing you know they're hitting the shrink over the head with the fake plant they have in the corner of their clinical offices."

"I think his dad left his mom when he was in second or third grade," muttered Brittany. "Abandoned his family without saying so much as a goodbye and never looked back. After that, Noah changed his name to 'Puck' and then went on to become that nasty boy everyone suffers from, it's really sad." Pulling a rather large teddy bear onto her lap, Brittany began to hug it. There she kept a tight grip on it, her fingers clinging on its soft fur as she stared down at the patchwork quilt in sorrow.

No one seemed to talk for a few minutes. The sounds of the radio were still whirring in the background but apart from that, everyone was now giving thought to what had been revealed, until Brittany spoke again. "His mom and sister haven't seen a single one of his football games or shown any real interest in him or his education. He was pretty much branded a 'failure' by his dad even before he left, so yeah. It could be why he's so mean but... I don't know. It may not be his fault."

"If you don't mind me asking Britt, how do you know about all this?" Asked Kurt quietly, glancing over at Quinn, who by the look on her face, was just as curious. Yet all he got in return for his question was a look. Brittany had raised her gaze from the comforter and was eying him as if she'd seen a rainbow for the first time. It was the strangest thing, until the girl crawled her way over to him, steadied his face in the cups of her hands and stared deeply into his eyes, their faces inches apart.

It was as if she was attempting to open the gates to his soul with her own, as if she was trying to decipher a message from the ocean like pool glistening back at her. It was disconcerting to say the least, and the poor boy could only shift slightly as he attempted to loosen the blonde's firm grip. "Britt, do you mind? I need my eyesight for the day I witness Santana becoming a liver sausage in a wee from two much Botox at the age of thirty... I'm... Britt... let go, what are you doing?"

"How did you get those eyes, Kurtie?" Asked Brittany, retracting her hands as Kurt rubbed his temples where her hands had once lain. However, as he expected for Brittany to back up a bit, she didn't move. She remained right where she was, sandwiching him between her and Quinn. Was there some sandwiching craze going on that Kurt didn't know about? He didn't appreciate being treated like a piece of delectable filler. "They are so blue. The kind kittens have when they're born."

"My mother gave them to me which in a way was a very kind thing of her gift me with," replied Kurt, delicately tracing one eye with his finger as Brittany followed it intently. Yet he paused as he saw something shimmer in Brittany's own set of aquamarine eyes. A realization. "Yeah, I've been told that blue eyes in the east are seen as the sign for water and that it can put out fire, wash away earth and even destroy iron, but of course such views here in the west are nearly nonexistent."

"Oh my God, that sounds so cool! My unicorn has magical eyes that can do so many neat things! Quinn did you hear that?! He can wash away fire! Fire!" Exclaimed Brittany, bouncing up and down on her bent knees as Kurt shot a hand out to steady himself on the bouncy mattress whilst Quinn wasn't as lucky. She fell to the floor on all fours with an 'umph!' only to end up laughing, getting up and resuming her position on the bed as Brittany looked intently back at Kurt.

The spark was definitely back in this girl, yet the shimmer Kurt had seen was gone. He wanted to know more about it, for he believed it meant something, but he left it as Brittany continued. "What's the use in fire fighters and iron and hoses if you have Kurt here who can do it just by having blue eyes! Wow, you should totally be with Puck. You could put out the fire in his eyes, wash out the poison in his soul and save his heart before he shrivels up to be a grumpy old man with a pitchfork."

"Err... Britt, not that the idea of Puck being a model citizen or a model human is a good one, shouldn't we be getting on to what he wanted to Kurt about?" Suggested Quinn, sending wide eyes over to Brittany heavy with a secret message only they knew about. Poor Kurt was again caught in between, but at this point, he wasn't so much as caring about that they were meant to talk to him about as much as what had just been said. He should be with Puckerman? Bile rising! Alert! Alert!

Shifting on the bed, Kurt rubbed at his chest before clearing his throat. If it had been anyone else who had uttered what Brittany had revealed then Kurt would have been flummoxed to the point where he would have had to nip on over the dermatologist to rid himself of the frown lines on his forehead, but considering this was a girl who thought he could crap glitter from his portal of paradise and consequently grow 'chocolate chickens chocked full of choc-choc chocky goodness', he decided to brush it off as either a slip of the tongue or just a plain old made up creation from the blonde's ever imaginative state of mind. After all, from what he'd learned, it was best not to take some of Brittany's material too seriously.

"Anyway Kurt," continued Quinn, the boy turning his attention from one blonde to another. "I know being on the Cheerios might seem to be a lot of work, but I'm telling you, the more you get into it, the better you'll be. Plus after what happened with Puckerman, you not only missed the warm ups but you were pretty shaken after it, and it was the first practice which is always the worst for beginners. Having that feeling where you want to die because of Sylvester is common. Believe me."

"It's not just that, Quinn. I just don't have a lot of experience with exercise in general. I've never been part of a sports team, I wasn't in my last school and I wasn't thinking I would be in this one. Santana's right. I'm just going to weight everyone down, I don't know why Sylvester chose me," sighed Kurt as he leaned back on the comforter where his arms soon found themselves over his eyes, as if he were afraid that both Brittany and Quinn would nod in agreement.

The truth was, many of the girls as well as the boys on the cheerleading squad could stretch like nothing else. You name it, Kurt had caught sight of the splits, the head-to-knee forward bend and the pigeon pose, leading him to think that no wonder the football players had a hard time pulling their glued eyes away from their warm up. It was perfect eye candy. As for the dancing, every one of the Cheerios were like professionals in his eyes. They were all well co-ordinated, had excellent posture and were able to memorize the moves with so much ease and with just a total of two to three playbacks that it just helped to make Kurt feel that bit more alone. He tried not to let it affect him too much, but it was hard. It was very hard.

As if sensing his self-pitying thoughts, Quinn hopped off the bed and headed to a draw in her desk. There she pulled out a piece of laminated paper with every single yoga position listed in order of difficulty, from a straight forward lunge and bound angle pose to positions meant to widen the eyes of a contortionist. "Quinn, you've got to be kidding. Are you saying I have to master every single one of these by the next practice? They'll be nothing left of me. I mean, whose legs bend back that far?"

"Well for a starters, mine do," smiled Quinn, Kurt gaping back at her as they returned to observe the plough position. "Kurt, it takes time to increase your body's flexibility so you'll have to stick with it, keep focused and remain consistent. Choose music that's easy to work out to and set a schedule of an hour after school so that when you're finally able to do these, you'll have all the boys gawking at you and trust me, when it comes to this, it won't matter if their gay or straight."

Nodding, Kurt glanced back down at the paper of stretches before raising his head to meet Brittany's watchful eyes. There it was again, that shimmer, burning brighter now, as if she was having a premonition of what that day would bring when he'd be able to stretch to his heart's content. As if she knew the exact person who'd lay their eyes on him when the hour came. "Don't worry, Kurt. Britt and I will guide you and with our help, you'll be as lithe as a Birman cat in no time. You'll see..."


	6. Gym

One week had passed since Kurt's first cheerleading practice and in that time, Mr. Schuester had criticized them all. He'd lectured them that when people caved into peer pressure, it only made them do things they would regret, and in this case, he used their 'Can't Speak French' performance or 'Can't Sing and Dance for Shit' performance as everyone in the school liked to label it, as an example to support his point, causing the few Glee club members to shrink further down into their seats. Rachel had definitely learned her lesson because, judging by the look on her face, she was more invested with coming up with a real comeback than ever before, though it wasn't as if anyone was going to listen to her this time. No way.

Meanwhile, for everyone else, their mission to recruit anyone who had any interest in the club had bombed. It was not surprising after all that after showcasing a poor debut that had aims of enticing possible members had most likely just reinforced how much of a loser show choir they really were. The club's sign up sheets had been desecrated, scribbled on with profanity so foul that every sheet had had to be removed from the fixtures board. Any ideas potential joiners would have had in their minds would have been of course killed and long buried. So now the Glee club were back to square one, singing in a large choir room with an angry music teacher for an audience. They really did seem to be at their lowest.

However, despite the weakening condition of the club, Kurt's friendships outside it's walls with both Quinn and Brittany were thriving. He would often have the girls round as well as go over to theirs and within the privacy of their bedrooms, they would stretch his body using different positions, go over choreography he was unsure about, and give him pointers as to how to flirt with members of the audience when in mid dance, all things he was immensely grateful for. When he was by himself, Kurt would continue to practice his yoga, making sure not to pull a muscle by pushing himself too far since according to both Quinn and Brittany, it was a rookie mistake that would end up being more painful than he could imagine.

Through it all however, Kurt had also come to learn both girls' unique style of dancing. Brittany, who was by far the best dancer in the squad, could move her body with such fluidity whilst Quinn, who had this elegant and graceful way of gliding her way across a room as if on air, always managed to steal your line of sight by transfixing your eyes totally on her. Kurt desired also to adopt a signature style, considering he wished to bring something new to the team apart from the 'gay factor' which at first, he thought, didn't really count at all. Yet, as soon as Sylvester had stated it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he knew that his sexuality was going to be his main standout feature whether he liked it or not.

However, despite this narrow minded identifier, Kurt pressed on with his exercises. He'd discovered that by listening to upbeat dance music that his sessions ended much sooner than predicted, especially with the beats acting as a metronome to prevent his body from slacking off. There had been, of course, the embarrassing occasions when he'd lost balance and fallen over repeatedly, all with the cost of the odd bruise here and then. Yet as he'd trained his body to rid itself of any sluggish tendencies that would only hinder his progress, to unleash its potential from within, by the time three whole weeks had finally passed, his body was a lot more supple, a lot more open and a lot freer to express.

It had been a personal feat he'd wanted to share with the Glee club but in the end, he'd kept his mouth shut. Everyone there, including Mr Schuester, had already made it abundantly clear that they didn't like the Cheerios and if he were to say he was actually starting to make friends within Sylvester's 'murder of crows', he was sure he'd never hear the end of it. He was aware the status gap between cheerleader and show choir singer was greater than the moon, but Kurt just didn't know what made Quinn and Brittany so evil. They certainly weren't as mean and cruel as Santana and some of the other girls, who had resorted to stare him down coldly as well as attempt to discreetly trip him up in the corridors, all of course, in vain.

Today he was in his Physical Education class, walking out of the locker rooms a lot earlier than all the other boys just in case they dunked his head in the toilet or performed something equally degrading. Yet since it was gym, one could only guess who he had to share it with. Every member from the McKinley Titans to the Cheerios along with only a handful of other students attended the class which meant that he'd spend an hour exercising with Puckerman and his group of mentally deficient friends, and of course Santana with her bickering pussy posse. Fortunately, Santana was off sick, leaving one less bitch he'd have to deal with as Kurt entered the gym and made his way over to Brittany by the bleachers, a warm smile on her face.

As they approached each other, the blonde couldn't help but rake her eyes over his physique before letting out an approving wolf whistle, one that had everyone's heads turning to look at the boy as he blushed his way over to Brittany. She internally congratulated herself when she noticed that beneath the skin-tight yoga pants that showed off an ass like two scoops of peach melba ice cream and a fitted matching hoodie that curved in at his waist like a finely blown hourglass, was a body she and Quinn had helped mould. It was now a limber and lithesome body that caught attention, had eyes gracing over, and by the looks of it, was much more in keeping with a boy like him. Kurt was now fit, and hot as fuck.

"Looking good, Kurtie! Oh, and good news! Mr. Onira isn't here today! He's sick or something, which means we have a replacement, which means we can exercise any way we want for the whole period!" Squealed Brittany excitedly as Kurt reached her, the blonde pulling him aside to sit with her on the lowest tier of the bleachers. At the statement, he looked around to see that on the opposite end of the bleachers was indeed a substitute teacher – and a poor replacement at that.

"Yep, we have good old Ms. Sosa," Brittany muttered as they both glanced on over at the teacher on the other side of the gym, sitting by her no doubt rented designer handbag and flicking idly through the pages of her trashy gossip magazine very much how a child did when all they were interested in were the illustrations. "She's not going to bother us though. She's always reading that Cosmo magazine so it's not like she cares what we do. I can help you more with your stretches."

"Britt, as much as I would like you to help me stretch, I don't think Ms. Sosa is reading a Cosmo," answered Kurt, though in all honesty, he didn't care what the woman was reading. He'd much sooner watch Brittany wear her mothers oven gloves as slippers and attempt to fan yourself with a brick whilst pretending to be a geisha than waste his sight on someone as bland looking as Ms. Sosa. However, he relented as Brittany remained curious. "From here it looks like… like a… damn it I can't see."

Kurt tried to catch a glimpse of the cover of whatever sports-like magazine the teacher was holding but as he did, the gym doors flew open and in cascaded the Titan boys, laughing and chatting as they entered. "Well anyway Britt, it'll only be a matter of time before she makes us lie on the floor before she tells to go to our happy places. I'm telling you, it'll be more constructive to tie helium balloons to our bodies and float ourselves into the ceiling than listen to this woman."

However, five minutes into the lesson and Kurt was eating his own words. Ms. Sosa, much to everyone's surprise was actually overseeing the class. She sternly demanded for silence, shooting an austere expression at anyone who dared to disobey her before instructing for them all to run ten laps of the gym, with any corner cutters punished by running another ten. Following the standard warm up, they all brought out fitness mats which they all laid along the expanse of the gym floor. However, due to the limited number of mats available, only half the class was able to use them. Kurt didn't know what had happened to the rest. He'd heard rumors of them being used as parachutes, but seriously, were jocks that stupid?

Due to this unprecedented set back, the class had had to be divided into two groups with Brittany unfortunately not included in his. Luckily, however, Puckerman and his band of sniveling minions weren't with him either, yet it only gave them the opportunity to whisper and chuckle at him when it came to his group's turn on the mats. As Kurt selected the mat furthest away from the jocks, he sat down cross-legged and patiently waited for Ms. Sosa to instruct them on what stretches to undergo. Yes, they were doing stretches today and Kurt was so grateful they were. He could now show off his hours of hard work, finally prove to all those Cheerios that had judged his body that he was just as in shape as they were.

As Ms. Sosa selected a song on her iPod which she'd connected to the gym speakers, she turned to face the students. She didn't know a great deal about yoga and had only plugged it in partly because she'd never seen exercise portrayed on TV without bass and synths, and partly because she wanted to listen to her own music as she taught. It was a tune that got her pumped and with that, she set the first position: The Supine leg stretch. Watching Kurt lie on his side and lifting his leg up high into the air, Brittany watched with wide eyes as she quietly clapped her hands close to her chest, gushing in lustrous thrill at the boy's profound new flexibility, flexibility that really had noted exist a week ago.  _  
_

The group was soon stretching from one position to the next and as they progressed, the more physically demanding they became. Muscles were strained, faces winced and arms shook to the point where the majority of the students who weren't in the Cheerios had to drop out and observe with the rest of the class at the risk of breaking themselves. Although it had never happened to him, since he'd taken what Quinn and Brittany had said with much consideration, Kurt had heard horror stories of exercises of the sort going beyond the safety limit. They were horrific, yet they only egged him on – or rather scared him into doing it all correctly, until when it came to the final stretch, the vertical split, he held back.

Kurt had only ever performed this particular position three times before, and each time he had, the floor and his face had requainted many a time. Not wanting to embarrass himself when he was doing so well, he beckoned Brittany over and whispered in her ear, his voice almost breathless. "Britt, I need to balance on you while I do this. Do you think you can hold my weight," he asked nervously, as the blonde nodded with a firm smile. "Thanks."

Positioning himself closer to Brittany, Kurt ignored the eyes that were on him, yet even when he attempted to avert his own gaze, Brittany caught sight of the flickers of apprehension in those twin pools, the warm beads of sweat that were forming at his forehead, everything. It was clear that the boy was overexerting himself, maybe too much. He was caving yet again into peer pressure, hell bent on proving that he could succeed in doing one of the hardest moves in the book at the risk of hurting himself. It was wrong. She knew it was. If Quinn were in her place, the girl would have warned Kurt for his own safety, but Quinn wasn't here, Brittany was, and she wanted to see the smirks of Puckerman's gang of barbaric apes wiped clean off.

However, as the blonde fought hard against her common sense, the battle ended as she was swiftly drawn out of her wonderings. Kurt had already placed his right hand around her shoulder and had proceeded to lift his left leg up with his other hand. She'd been too late. She couldn't voice any doubts now. Brittany could only stand there, supporting his weight, sensing the boy lean into her and with trained yet anxious eyes, she watched as Kurt lifted his leg to create a perfect one eighty degree vertical split. Ms. Sosa, taking note of the boy's perfect stretch, began fervently applauding, luring everyone's eyes onto Kurt as he seemed to have fully relaxed himself into his impressive position. He'd done it. Her unicorn had done it!

Whispering golden streams of flattering compliments in the boy's ear, resulting in a grateful smile forming on this face, Brittany continued sending Kurt words of soft praise. There really was nothing to worry about. Kurt's face wasn't pinched in pain or scrunched up in agony, he was beaming and was sure as hell good enough for Brittany. However, as she pulled her head away and scanned the various impressed expressions of her fellow peers, she noticed the jocks eying Kurt with thwarted looks of defeat. Trailing her eyes over every single one, Brittany knew that none of them could harpoon Kurt with either an insult or a tackle, and the sense of satisfaction and pride she derived from it was phenomenal.

However, as her eyes flitted across to Puck, Brittany's smile seemed to darken into a smirk. The mohawked boy was standing in front of his jock crowd, neither whispering nor talking with any of them, his gaze solely transfixed on Kurt. Hazel eyes traced the pale boy's leg as it suspended itself in the air. Higher and higher it traced, tracing like no other sight before. It was a look Puck knew how to give well, but to Brittany, it looked as if he'd lost control of it. His mouth sagged open and his chest rose up and down more forcefully than necessary. If the blonde didn't know any better, it looked as if Puck was literally panting. The only feature missing was the protruding tongue and even that was nearing the front of his mouth.

Licking his lips, Puck tore his eyes away from Kurt, but it was only a matter of seconds before he brought them reluctantly back to the hot piece of ass she was holding on to. In that moment, a plan was hatched, hatched by a supposedly dumb blonde who was no more intelligent than a toothpaste packet. She knew of what lay down in the depths of Puck's eyes. She knew of what hid there, a scintillated gleam that had become more active whenever Kurt's presence was in view. Brittany liked to think she was only one to have noticed, that her own insight that most of the time transcended understanding was the sole one to pick up on such secrecy. Puck had a secret, and this plan would hatch to only to one outcome.

Finally, with only around fifteen minutes left of class, Ms. Sosa instructed everyone to roll up the mats and set them to one side. Brittany watched as the teacher then pulled out several black blindfolds from her bag where she then straightened out along her thigh with her hands, ridding them of any unsightly creases in the material. At this, everyone in the class frowned. It was bad enough having a teacher who didn't know what she was doing, but to have one who was going to blindfold them all only to have them play human piñata was another. Yet Brittany knew what Ms. Sosa had in mind. The girl had seen the blindfolds earlier poking out from her bag and she knew what was coming. Her little game was about to begin.

Meanwhile, Kurt could only smile at his stretching success earlier as he rejoined the class, but not before he was forcefully shoved by Puckerman into the door with a loud bang that was sure to leave a handle shaped dent in the wall as they returned from the storage closet. Rubbing his shoulder, Kurt narrowed his eyes dangerously and set forth to burn red hot lasers in the back of the jock's mohawked head. He prayed continuously that Puckerman blindly stagger into a searing hot oven where his skin would peel off like a well cooked chicken but was interrupted as Ms. Sosa began outlining the upcoming 'trust-building' exercise meant to increase the focus on the remaining four senses excluding, of course, sight.

Half of the students were to be blindfolded and their partner was then to think up an activity that would aim to improve a sense of trust within them. However, those blindfolded were not to know of their partner, nor were they allowed to work with someone they already had a strong relationship with. Building new arcs of assurance and certitude amongst students less familiar with one another was one of the primary objectives of the exercise and, of course, like every other one like it, the reaction received wasn't positive. However, Ms. Sosa was very adamant that they do this. Comfort zones she'd claimed were for cowards and they'd never survive the world beyond the walls of McKinley if they remained so segregated.

Collecting a blindfold, Kurt proceeded with his group to the other side of the gym. They were instructed to all position themselves in their own spaces, leaving plenty of room around them in case collisions should occur later on. However, tying the blindfolds was considerably harder. Huffs of frustration and disgruntlement emanated from those struggling with the lengths of cloth in their hands and as Kurt glanced over at Brittany on the far side of the room, she threw him a sympathetic smile. He really didn't feel like being separated from her right now, what with this odd lesson venturing out of the ordinary, but he grinned at her in return before bringing his blindfold up to his eyes and tying it tightly around his head.

Darkness fell. His vision was no more. He couldn't see a thing, leaving only the erect hairs on the back of his neck as tactile sensors. It wasn't until now that he understood how thoroughly vulnerable he was without his wits about him. No doubt a senseless jock had already targeted him and was prepared to snatch up the advantage of his fragile situation, to torture him by making him fall repeatedly to the floor or something else equally as humiliating. It was too good a chance for them not to pass up. Yet just the thought of returning home that day to lift up his shirt only to see a minefield of bruises scaring his battered body, it was enough to brace himself for the worst, as if awaiting the oncoming swing from the executioner's sword.

In the other group across the room, Puck scanned the various blindfolded students that were scattered around like garden statues before landing on a hot Cheerio situated slap dunk in the middle of the small crowd. He knew that if Santana were here she would have tied his eye sight to a leash, daring him to approach another member of the opposite sex for fear of castration. However, since she was off sick, Puck had the freedom to lather every good looking girl's body with his ravenous hazel eyes. Not that he hadn't done it many a time before. Puck had slept with every one of them at least twice within the past year and he was well aware who had the most voluptuous breasts and who had the juiciest pussy of them all.

Setting a silent signal, Ms. Sosa nodded her head, allowing everyone to near their chosen partner, and as Puck made his way towards his blind target, he glared at anyone who made for her to, as if he were the head of a pride of lions, scaring off the competition for the most fertile lioness. However, as he approached his chosen Cheerio, he was cut off as Brittany suddenly bounded into view, causing him to stumble back and growl as she wagged her finger and stole his partner with a taunting giggle. Yet this only served to further boil his anger. He felt like fighting her, felt like wiping that proud look off her face, to see it disappear, but in the end, he let it drop. It was only over a Cheerio, there were plenty of other flavors to go around.

Stepping away but not before shooting Brittany a look that meant if she ever did anything of the sort again, he wouldn't be as lenient, Puck looked about for a spare partner but unfortunately, everyone had been taken... except one. The fairy was standing in the corner of the gym, his hands clasped together in front of him with nerves radiating so intensely that it was felt even from Puck's position a few meters away.  _Oh this is too easy,_ thought the jock as he smirked to himself, winding his way through each set of partners to reach the boy at the end. As he arrived, he looked around. A fellow jock was eagerly watching him from afar, begging Puck on with his eyes to commit a prank, a dirty trick that would have everyone in stitches.

Quietly sniggering so as to not give himself away, Puck placed a finger to his lips to signal the jock for silence before finally facing Kurt, who at this point had his head tilted down to the ground. However, it was in that moment that Puck realized how extraordinarily fragile-looking this boy truly appeared. Kurt was shorter than he was, not as big and, by the looks of it, not as strong. It was only natural to view him as weaker, totally helpless and completely vulnerable and open to attack. In fact, Puck didn't feel it right to abuse the boy where he stood, let alone prank him. Only pussies would take advantage of his position and he was too much of a badass to do something as low as that. Even he had standards.

Bending his knees slightly so as to crouch down to see Kurt's blindfolded face, Puck noticed for the first time the boy's uncontrollably quivering lip. Kurt was properly terrified out of his mind, terrified about what his mystery partner was going to subject him to and as Puck looked on, a small surge of guilt rose within him. If anyone had asked him he would have replied in his defense that there wouldn't have been any point of hurting someone if they were blind folded. You wouldn't have been able to see the fear in their eyes. There would be no satisfaction what so ever, yet deep down Puck knew that such a reason was not the case. Bringing his finger up, he gently placed it under Kurt's chin and raised it for closer inspection.

The way they were standing in front of each other reminded Puck of the confrontation they had shared on the playing field a week ago. Words. Cruel words had been exchanged and the memory flashed across his mind in a fast haze accompanied with the snapshot of eyes the color of sapphire bringing themselves to light once again. He had been so enraptured by Kurt's brilliant orbs that he hadn't for a second looked anywhere else. Why would he when there was such perfect beauty staring albeit angrily back at him. He wanted nothing more than to rip the blindfold from the boy's eyes and indulge his own in a feast of ocean blue, but he knew he couldn't. Instead, his eyes once again trailed down to those quivering lips.

Lips. These lips only increased Kurt's femininity due to their sheer size and ruby-colored shade, exaggerated further by his pale as porcelain skin. Bringing his thumb up to trail across the boy's trembling lip, Puck watched on in fascination as they ceased to move upon impact, but relished in the feeling of the softest lips he'd ever touched. Damn, they were soft. What he was thinking now was disconcerting. He was Noah Puckerman, resident badass of McKinley, leader of the social crowd. He was hot, he was a football Titan, he had the head Cheerio as his girlfriend and he could get away with anything and no one would dare say shit about him less they face the fate of the boy who was standing right of front of him.

However, Kurt realistically hadn't done anything wrong. The boy didn't often cross paths with Puck, had done nothing to cause the jock real harm but whenever they had found themselves in each other's presence, Kurt had always showcased his defensive side, a self-protective side that Puck had always viciously brought out. For Kurt was just this innocent-looking boy who just happened to be into strong arms, great eyes and big dick instead of a hot rack, smooth pins and sweet pussy. No, that's not what Kurt was into and somehow every prejudiced bigot thought that that gave them a legitimate right to bash him for it. It was ignorant and narrow-minded, but that was how McKinley worked, leaving Kurt to struggle for his survival.

In terms of appearance, Kurt wasn't a bad-looking kid and it wasn't as if he was being bullied for being ugly. That's what that Jacob Ben Israel boy was there for. No, Kurt was not ugly, but he wasn't the handsomest boy either. He wasn't muscular, strapping, burly or stout, nor was he hegemonic in attitude. In fact, handsome was probably too masculine a word to describe Kurt's image in general. The boy had the face of a 'Swinging Sixties' model. Unique. A coltish, gamine look that was too waif like to retain major curves, but rather had an appearance full of potential mischievousness, tease and sexual appeal. A naïveté that did not rule out sophistication, that was overpoweringly chic. A look that Puck found youthful and very sexy.

Shuffling closer to Kurt, Puck removed his finger from the boy's lips before he gently raised Kurt's face even higher into the light, the angle rising as he took in the boy's facial canvas with greater clarity. Kurt had an oval-shaped face with a narrow jawline that gracefully tapered from his cheeks to his chin, a doll like baby nose that was as cute as a button, ivory white skin, arched eyebrows, royal regatta eyes of doe like proportions (that were at the moment concealed), and pouty lips as red as the rose. They were features not commonly associated with the male image, but rather the female and Puck couldn't help but awe as if he were in an exhibition, viewing a piece of unconventional art that challenged society and its norms.

To him, even though he knew it sounded strange and even though it would sound odd if he ever voiced such a comparison, but in his eyes, Kurt reminded him of Snow White, or at least a male variation of her. There was just a likeness that Puck just couldn't get over, because it was as if the features of the character had been so accurately captured and engraved onto Kurt that now he resembled a person that was almost too precious to break but yet too valuable to let go. Puck felt like Humbert the fucking woodsman, ordered and expected by his own status in high school to destroy this boy, to lead him into a dark alley way and to rip out the heart of a 'freak' who, by the laws of the Brothers Grimm, was also the fairest of them all.

Pulling his sight away from Kurt, Puck looked around at the other students. They were all in the midst of their own 'trust-building' exercises. Some seemed to be working well amongst the unlikeliest of partners, sharing quite a chemistry even though one was blind folded, whilst others were best to look away from if the huffs of irritation were any indication. Craning his neck slightly, Puck took note of Ms Sosa on the other side of the room, her eyes flitting over everyone, yet as her line of sight drew nearer to him and his partner, Puck carefully backed Kurt deeper into the corner of the room and faced him. Now they had greater privacy, now Puck could look at Kurt as much as he liked without interruption, without suspicion.

Resuming his position in front of Kurt, Puck gave into temptation and brought his thumb back up to trace Kurt's bottom lip as he bit down on his own to avoid voicing his pleasure at such God damn softness. Yet as Puck surrendered himself to his senses, his body subconsciously swayed forwards, his weight veering all its mass towards the front and as it did, the weight on Kurt's lips by his finger increased. Kurt, feeling the added pressure on his pout, shook his head hastily to rid himself of the intrusion but it only caused him to lose balance. Letting in a sharp intake of breath, the boy began to lean back perilously and before he knew it, Kurt's hands had flown out from his sides and grabbed hold of Puck's Letterman jacket for support.

This impulsive action utterly bewildered Puck. He'd never thought Kurt would actually touch him, yet in the midst of the battle to regain balance, Kurt's weight pulled him forwards, nearing Kurt's body, nearing Kurt's face until without having time to dodge or avoid the oncoming collision, Puck's lips landed securely but tenderly on the pout he'd spent one minute gawking at.  
On contact, the jock's eyes flew open and both boys let out a small grunt of surprise. It felt as though they were falling, still teetering as if on a precipice, yet due to Puck's body withholding greater mass than Kurt's, he was able to bring them both back upright with a help of a hand weaving round Kurt's waist for support, yet no sooner had it weaved, and it was gone.

Pulling away from Kurt's mouth immediately due to the shock, his throat gulping in disbelief as well as air, Puck stood rooted to the ground. His mind had been blown wide with a bombshell explosion of astonishment, rendering his tongue immobile as he tried to speak, as he tried to voice anything at all, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. Puck was speechless. All he could feel was Kurt's breath as both their pants coated each other's faces. All he could feel was Kurt's hands that were still clasped onto his Letterman jacket as if the boy feared he would fall again without holding onto something sturdy and strong, and finally, all Puck could feel still lingering on his lips were the weakening sensations that came about from a wonderful first kiss.

Call Puck crazy, which he likely was about now, but it was as if Kurt's lips had perfectly molded themselves into the shape of his own. Every curve and every arch had perfectly complimented his, every stretch of his lips had been cushioned and... fuck! This was really freaking him out. However, Puck didn't have the desire to run away, to flee, to abandon what he'd just discovered behind. He knew that even though he was panicking inside, the chance of gracing those lips would most likely never face itself again, so not wasting any more valuable time, Puck briskly pulled Kurt flush against his muscular chest, wrapped his arms securely around the boy's slim waist and proceeded to gorge himself on his luscious new discovery.

"Alright everyone in group two, come away from you partners and return to your side of the room," announced Ms. Sosa, the bell sounding for the end of the period as everyone ended their various trust-building exercises. Retreating, the second non blind folded group returned to their side of the room, all except for Puck, whose mouth was still heavily plastered to Kurt's whilst the pale boy's hands pushed with all their might against the firm chest that seemed so intent on meeting his own.

However, Puck did not register this resistance at all. Kurt could have pounded against his chest as hard as he would have liked, it wouldn't have worked. The boy could have pushed against the jock's body for as long as he had the energy to, it wouldn't have made a difference. Nothing could pull Puck out of his trance until the shrill voice of Ms. Sosa cracked through the air like a whip. "When I mean everyone, I mean everyone! That includes you two boys in the corner! Now move!"

Reluctantly pulling away from Kurt's rapidly swelling lips, Puck looked back around at Ms. Sosa as she impatiently tapped the floor with her high heeled shoe. Yet it wasn't the sight of her annoyance that had Puck's blood freezing in his veins. Everyone in his group was eyeing him with frowns, the jocks were peering at him from the other side of the room to catch a better look of what he was actually doing, yet due to the blindfolded students obscuring some visibility and due to Puck having pushed Kurt back into the dimly lit corner of the gym with his broad back facing anyone who may have looked their way, no one could make out what on earth Puck was doing. The jock doubted most knew his partner was Kurt. All they could do was watch.

Retracting his hands from Kurt's waist and into his Letterman pockets, Puck returned nonchalantly to his group, his cheeks slightly flushed as he avoided their dubious gazes. However, whilst everyone remained skeptical, Brittany smiled mischievously. She'd seen what had happened. No one could resist her adorable dolphin dumpling. Not even the Megalodon shark of McKinley. So as she observed Puck begin to fabricate a lie to his fellow friends about the prank he'd played on 'teen gay' as a cover-up, she set the timer. If even the White House had trouble covering its own scandals and conspiracies, what made Puck think he could? The clock was ticking and only it would be the judge for when the jock's time would be up.

"Okay, everyone wearing blindfolds you may now take them off, but make sure you return them to me before you leave. That's it for today. Class is dismissed," announced Ms. Sosa, every one of the blind folded students removing their eye masks from their faces as they squinted their weak eyes in the wake of the gym's harsh lights. Yet as Brittany looked over at Kurt, she frowned as she observed him tracing his lips with his finger, a terror-stricken expression scarring his face.

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

Later that afternoon, McKinley was let out to have everyone of its students walk home. Work on the parking lot to fill in those dastardly potholes was still underway meaning no one could drive to or from school for another week and though having to organize other means of transportation may have angered some, the walk for others was much welcomed, Kurt included, as he and Rachel recounted their day, with Kurt's given full attention by the marks on his face, large rash like marks that littered his chin, the work of unshaven stubble it was said, how it had scratched his sensitive skin to have it left it looking as if he'd had the lower half of his face subjected to a botched chemical peel, his poor lips at the center of this unsightly mess, swollen. 

"You're not serious are you? Oh God, that sounds absolutely revolting," gushed Rachel in horror. Kurt knew his partner's identity was yet to be unmasked, funny as Kurt had been the one blindfolded, and as Rachel's eyes blew wide with what she had been told, he reminded himself that he was just as shocked. "So you stood there kissing this complete stranger? Kurt, what if he was in bad health? He's probably passed it onto you! It could be a virus that affects your voice! It could be-"

"Rachel, chill, I'm sure whomever it was isn't infected or contaminated with anything and even if they were, I have a very good immune system so I think I'm covered," dismissed Kurt as Rachel looked at him worriedly as if he really had caught something. However, it was a look that would have been sweet if he hadn't known that all she really cared about was the continuation of the Glee club, and since operation recruitment had failed, they couldn't afford to lose it's existing members.

Raising his finger to his lips, Kurt winced as he felt them. The once proud buoyancy of their cushioned state had gone, as if they had been punctured with the pricks from countless needles, needles in the form of stubble. "In any case, you needn't feel even the slightest bit jealous over the romantic side that you might see in all of this because whoever kissed me and I'm almost positive it was a boy, couldn't kiss to save his life. Believe me Rachel when I say this, it was disgusting."

"Oh you poor thing, was it really that bad?" Asked Rachel as Kurt threw her a look that confirmed he was not exaggerating. To begin with, Kurt didn't know much about kissing. He didn't know what constituted as a good or bad one, only that he was sure pain wasn't meant to be a part of the allegedly pleasurable experience. Neither did he believe having your partner's tongue darting in and out of your mouth as if it were stabbing it or lying in it like a clam were considered pleasant.

Whoever had slobbered all over his had not only bitten and sucked on his lip too hard for it to nearly extract copious amounts of blood, but they had also forcefully unleashed their tongue upon his dentures, breathed too harshly so that the faint smell of the day's lunch had hit his nose and gripped too hard onto his waist where him was sure he was going to find claw-like bruises in a matter of time. Yet what struck Kurt the hardest was that despite this large array of unpleasantries, the boy kissing him had seemed to have been having the time of his life. How else could one explain the possessive hold and the deep-chested grunts and moans that emanated from his less than romantic first time kisser?

"If it were up to me, the kiss would go down as the worst in history, and to think that whoever it was wanted to share it with me, how thoughtful," sighed Kurt. He recalled that whilst he'd been blind folded, he'd been anticipating a prank of some sort. He just never knew it would have been in the form of a bad kiss. Well, at least it was something new. "I just can't wait to get home. Away from those Letterman Neanderthals, away from Ms. Sosa's stupid gym exercises and away from all this."

"Do you want me to come home with you? We could assemble a more improved set list for Glee club, even find a duet for the two of us. What do you say?" Asked Rachel, Kurt glancing over at her with doubt as she attempted to convince the look right off his face. To be honest, Kurt didn't know if he had the energy to be engulfed in a Rachel-style evening but then again, he still needed to vent the frustrations of the day out on someone and it sure as hell wasn't going to be his father.

"Fine, you can come over, but only because you need someone to supervise you when compiling lists. If I leave you to your own devices, we'll all be left at the mercy of your material and look how well that turned out," replied Kurt, reveling in the look of displeasure Rachel was throwing him out of the corner of his eye. That's right, he still harbored ill feelings towards her for the way she'd handled their assembly performance, how she'd made them a mockery for the remainder of the year.

However, as Kurt glanced over at her current look disappointment and guilt, he decided to cut her some slack. He was having a bad day and he was not taking it well. "I'm sorry, Rach. I only think this ought to be a joint effort, not a one-man band. We can't have people being so anally retentive about this that they're afraid of picking up a score with fear that they're going to eat it. Plus, I never was able to show you the songs I came up with, what with the Cheerios and all."

"Speaking of which, how is that going? You told us you sucked at dancing, so how is it that Sylvester picked you out of our line up to become a Cheerio. How is that even possible?" Asked Rachel, glancing ahead of her as Kurt threw her a reproachful look. Even if she hadn't meant it as it had sounded, it still remained a comment that was enough to show a decent amount of doubt in his dance moves. Not that Kurt cared all that much. He could so now beat Rachel's ass in a dance off.

Yet despite this, he could understand Rachel's puzzlement. The first choreography practice they'd had in Glee club had had to be extended an extra hour because Kurt had been unable to remember every move in the allotted time. Everything else had been fine, it was just a matter of remembering the moves that had proved a challenge. "Kurt, the only reason you were able to do the dance in 'Can't Speak French' was simply because we dumbed it down for you... a thousand and one notches."

"Thanks Rach, I appreciate the reminder, but you know I like to think I've improved considerably since then. Being on the Cheerios brings a certain something, a distinction. Now I'm not so much the loser gay kid in Glee club, but the gay Cheerio, cheering for... actually come to think of it, I'm cheering on those Titans aren't I. Damn," cursed Kurt, realizing being a Cheerio only now hindered his vendetta of hatred towards the jocks. The counterproductive aspect in all this was just delicious.

All that aside, Kurt was adjusting under his newly appointed Cheerio title. One of the advantages of being on the squad was that he could put it down on his personal statement or CV when it came to apply for colleges or jobs in the future. Hopefully it would work in his favor. Returning to Rachel, Kurt continued speaking. "It was certainly hard at first, considering the bitch chip that has been implanted in nearly every single one of those girls, but I'm surviving. Haven't fallen off any pyramid as of yet."

"Well, just be careful who you mingle with Kurt. Always watch your back when around those girls. They could just as easily lie as they could push you off one of those pyramids of yours," advised Rachel as Kurt rolled his eyes at her dramatics. It was plain to see the girl disliked the popular chicks. Whether that was jealousy, envy or some over green-eyed monster lying within her, Kurt didn't know but it certainly didn't prompt him to reveal his growing friendship with both Quinn and Brittany.

However, just as Kurt was about to breach a completely new subject of conversation, Rachel ploughed on with talk of the Cheerios. Although he didn't consider it talk so much as if was a warning. Gee, she had to let it go. "Listen Kurt, cheerleaders aren't jocks. They're girls. They don't employ physical violence and they don't fight. They talk and as a result they tend to be a lot more sneaky about who they intend to harm, except for Jugs the Clown. She's just pure animal... with a ponytail."

"Well, maybe she just learned a trick or two from that awful boyfriend of hers, and speaking of which, why would you call yourself 'Puck'? It's such an inappropriate nickname to be referred to if you want to be seen as a 'badass', don't you think? I don't know about you but when I hear the name 'Puck', I think of the mythological fairy, the mischievous nature sprite. Not a boy who had his hair cut at a Clippers game," scoffed Kurt as Rachel nodded in agreement.

Now that she came to think of it, Kurt's reasoning did seem to make at least some sense. Yet she supposed it was a better alternative than 'Noah'. Noah the badass. It served to make her laugh. "What Rachel? It's true! Either that or his mohawk is genuinely raw roadkill. It's awful. It can't make a nice picture on his passport or his birth certificate, which I have to say, must be an apology from the condom factory because there is nothing good in him whatsoever."

"Come to think of it, what if it had been Puck who had kissed you, Kurt? What if he had come up to you and made out with you?" Smiled Rachel as Kurt attempted to hold back an amused smile before breaking out into a grin of his own. He shoved the hysterical girl aside, causing her to step down into the road before climbing back onto the pavement, chest still panting from her giggling. It shouldn't have been this amusing, if at all, but somehow the idea was that ludicrous.

"I can just imagine it now," laughed Rachel, raising her hands up in front of her face and imitating the lens of a camera, as she winked and poked her tongue out in mock concentration. "There Puck is, looking down at your lips with such desire. His urges are too great; he's been fighting this feeling for such a long time. The tofu-wearing boy he bullies, it all makes perfect sense! How hadn't we foreseen this?! It's textbook, for God's sake! How romantic, how sweet, how erot-umpth!"

"Oy, Benedict Arnold, will you stop spouting crap from that large mouth of yours! Just the thought of that boy's face near mine gives me the creeps as it is," replied Kurt as he clamped his hand over Rachel's face. Although Puckerman and him had had a standing confrontation which had ended with their faces merely centimeters apart, the proximity had been so off-putting as well as majorly uncomfortable that the idea that his face at all near the jock's just served to make his stomach churn.

"Even though I hate his guts, it would be interesting for it to have been him," admitted Kurt as he relented to give it thought. "Seeing as he is supposedly the 'sex shark' of the school, to find out that he can't kiss, well, let's just say I wouldn't want to be Boobs Magoo. I mean, she must have been faking when she was rammed against that locker. No possible human being would gain pleasure from their faces being harshly vacuumed to near disfigurement like that."

"You know, setting aside what he's done to you Kurt, I still don't know why you don't find Puck attractive," replied Rachel, watching Kurt's face with wonderment as he shrugged in his defense. In truth, she didn't know what type of men Kurt was into, apart from knowing he found smokers, drinkers and drug users a turn off. Then again, homophobia had to be the greatest deal breaker. You might as well pour acid no yourself. You were ruined to Kurt, no matter how hot you were.

"He's like, well to me, he's like the best looking boy I've ever seen in real life and to come across someone who doesn't swoon like every other girl and closeted gay guy in school is just. I don't know," continued Rachel as they turned onto Kurt's street. "You really are different, Kurt. I mean with most guys, the wheel is turning but the hamster is definitely dead but not you. There's something about you and don't think for a single second I'm the only one who's noticed…"


	7. Game

A few days following the incident in the gym and the Titans and Cheerios were preparing for the first major football game of the season. The match was set to take place after school that day and McKinley maintenance had gone out of their way to repaint the lines on the pitch, clean the bleachers and to make sure that everything was well, including a full stock of the school's giant foam fingers, banners and apparel for its supporters to use. However, as everyone in school appeared pumped in anticipation for the match, the actual footballers along with the cheerleaders had nerves fretting with unease and worry. All were on edge, because judging by their anxious and incessant fidgeting, the game was starting to really get to them.

The Titans, it was infamously known, had had a very embarrassing and continuous losing streak ever since last year. Every match there was pressure to end this humiliating reign of defeat, yet this couldn't have been further from the truth when it came to the Cheerios, who had been winning ribbons after medals after trophies for months now. It appeared they were McKinley's real prized possession, something Kurt admired Coach Sylvester for. The woman knew how to win. She knew how to push her squad into a high enough gear which obviously eclipsed that of Coach Tanaka's Titans and she knew that sometimes, more often than not, her cheerleaders were the main entertainers to see at these McKinley home games.

However, this fact only seemed to make Kurt's nerves fly even higher, as if his body was catapulting his spleen right into his throat. He was petrified. Granted he was doing progressively well in the Cheerios and his ability to learn complicated choreography in limited time had improved considerably, but he was not ready for a game. He was not ready to put himself out there in front of hundreds of screaming McKinley supporters. It was too soon. What if he were to trip and fall? What if were to forget a move, and worst of all, what if he were to be laughed at by everyone? They were horrific premonitions enough to racket the pen out of his fingers in class and quiver his breath on every trembling intake of air he took. Fuck!

Yet Kurt's emotionally fragile condition wasn't solely reserved entirely for reasons concerning the big game. Ever since the wildly unusual gym class of Ms Sosa's, the boy had become a lot more wary of those around him. He felt slightly paranoid, as if were expecting to be pounced on, as if all of a sudden someone was going to plaster their lips to his, but this time, rip them off. He constantly kept his eyes peeled, his sight trained on the other male students who he shared gym with; enforcing a subtle tactic, just to prevent them thinking he was eyeing them up. Sneakily and discreetly, he would peer at the boys whilst also carefully studying their faces, the way they moved and how they reacted to those around them.

It was creepy behavior and very stalker-like on Kurt's part, but amidst all those males was his mouth raper, and no, he was not being overdramatic by referring to them as that. He'd been physically assaulted, and under teacher supervision. It was a appalling. Kurt had the right to know who'd eaten at his mouth that day. He had the right, God dammit. The rash around his mouth, or the hickey that was similar in appearance to symptoms of severe hives had luckily dissipated, thanks to layers upon layers of over-the-counter creams and ointments. The treatment process had reminded him of when he'd been on Accutane where his lips had been so dry they'd inflamed. It was depressing. His first kiss, stolen, and he was in pain.

While Kurt was recovering from his mouth-to-mouth attack, Rachel had taken it upon herself, without his permission of course, to inform the remaining Glee club members of what had happened in gym. Although everyone at first had been surprised, they'd all believed Kurt to be exaggerating his condition, until he'd wiped the camouflage makeup off his face to reveal a sight that had left them all gasping. Mercedes had then wanted to know exactly what had happened, as if she were some giant leech ready to suck his story dry of anything worth tweeting about or at the very least, gossiping. Yet in the end, they'd all been genuinely concerned. Some believed it to be a dirty trick whilst others believed it to be the work of a very bad kisser.

The support and lovely words of consolation Kurt had received from his fellow Glee mates was much appreciated by the boy, until they'd went a tad far with it. Rachel, Tina and Mercedes had joined him in scouring each male gym classmate of his, whilst Artie had refused, claiming they'd never discover the identity of Kurt's mouth raper the way they were doing it. Kurt had agreed, yet the girls hadn't, leaving Kurt wishing they'd taken after Artie's grown-up like example but, of course, that simply wasn't in their nature. In fact, they were so enthused about finding Kurt's kissing partner that by the time the actual game came around, all three of them had sat themselves at the front of the bleachers to squeeze in more spy time.

Kurt had begged them to leave, claiming that they must have had better ways of spending their time, that surely they had more pressing matters to attend to. Even bitching about how all the Cheerios looked like they were on the cusp of organ failure, with bodies resembling relief maps of veins or at the very least, dancing skeletons with pulses was miles better than acting as his own set of undercover agents. Yet a unison of shaking heads was all he had received in response. They were to invested in this whole thing and there was no talking them out of it. Rachel had even brought along a pair of binoculars, a magnifier and... was that a swap? The girl was one pipe, mustache and deerstalker cap away from becoming Sherlock.

Bringing his fingers to his temples and rubbing them around in concentric circles, Kurt parted from the girls. He didn't have time for them, he had the upcoming Cheerio performance to worry about, yet as he ran a quick scan of the bleachers, he caught sight of his father further up in the stands, waving at him and calling out his name. Burt knew of his involvement in the Cheerios and the man had congratulated Kurt on his entry, yet the boy hadn't thought his father would come and see him cheerlead. If he'd been a Titan, it would have been different, Burt might have been more interested, yet the man was here, shining a proud smile down at Kurt through the many heads, a smile that had his son enthusiastically returning.

As Sylvester ordered her Cheerios into position under the scorching hot sun, Kurt assembled his first stance for the introduction of their school team. The band behind them commenced the music, its sound erupting, sending the melody high into the air and the spectators on both bleachers roared to life as the Cheerios began dancing energetically, their chants barely heard over the commotion from the spectators. As he weaved his way through the choreography, Kurt caught sight of the school mascot, a Roman warrior, riling up the crowd with waves of his hands as he trotted out onto the pitch closely followed by the Titan footballers, fully clad in their eye-catching red and white football gear and helmets.

Entering the opposite side of the field, flanked by their own set of dancing cheerleaders were the opposing team. To Kurt, their footballers looked very much like the Titans, only in blue with their mascot being a shark with large biceps. They looked formidable enough, gave an impression of being a worthy foe for McKinley, but then again Kurt didn't know much about football and as both teams took up their positions, their bodies hunched and ready to play, the boy took time to observe them all. They all looked like they wanted to massacre each other rather than win a simple football game. As if behind those face guards burned red eyes and ready to rip those fingerless gloves apart were claws deadlier than any meat cleaver.

Then again, the way they were behaving towards each other was all to do with intimidation, trying to scare off your opponent. Kurt had once heard his father going on about it on one of those rare occasions when they had both sat down together to watch a football game. In fact, Burt had gone into quite some detail about it, using the Haka as an example. However, most of what the man had said had entered one ear and out the other, and Kurt had only lasted thirty-seconds before he'd pulled out his iPhone to start playing Rayman. It was just that jumping up and down as a video game character with a dodgy smile and no limbs was so much more thrilling than watching a ball being fondled by teeth-baring men.

"Hey! Pasty-faced ghost boy, get over here now; you're going to ruin the routine if you don't move your ass!" Santana screamed as Kurt snapped himself out of his thoughts and whipped around to see the Latina storming towards him, her breasts that had so obviously been shoved into a pencil sharpener, leading the way. They'd just ended their first routine and were meant to start the second, but as his mind had been elsewhere, it seemed as though he was really pissing people off.

Grabbing hold of his arm and dragging him into his position, Santana let him go before fixing him with a fierce stare, yet his attention was stolen to the field as the game commenced in the wake of a howl of thundering cries, with a decibel high enough to shatter one's eardrums. However, his face was forced back to face Santana as she seethed. "Don't make me move you like a puppet again, lady boy, or I will personally ram your head against a window before pushing it through!"

Without thinking of much else to do less he be hit, Kurt nodded clearly as Santana stormed off before taking up her own position at the front. Yet as Kurt glanced around, he came to see all his other fellow cheerleaders looking at him with uncomfortable expressions, the sort of look you pulled in the presence of a child who'd just been grounded, the awkward air. However, Kurt refused to look embarrassed. He stared back at them all, daring them to call him out and one by one, they began to look elsewhere. That's right, if they wanted to look at him, they'd have to settle for his eyes. If they wanted to catch his expression after having being scolded, they were not going to get it, because Kurt was not weak. He was not.

Now closing his eyes, Kurt steadied his breathing before reopening them again to the sight of the football game before him. He'd once read that relaxing one's body before a performance made it more likely for it to be at the person's beck and call. The dancer was like a sculpture. Before one could start shaping an expressive figurine, one had to soften the clay, in this case, the body and so he let the energy almost simmer in his veins. His fingers flexed one by one, his muscles seemed to massage themselves as he remained perfectly still and Kurt simply allowed relaxation to wash over him as if he were lying on the beach, the tide caressing him gently. Then the music was heard. Then the speakers roared.

_I can't take this anymore_   
_I'm going to take care of this somehow_   
_I don't know anything but your old style_   
_if I were to produce you, do you have any idea how cool you could be?_

The Cheerios burst into action, their hips popping, their arms waving and their faces showing off their killer attitude. It was obvious that they had done this a thousand times before, but it only made Kurt compare himself to a measly untrained novice in a performance crowd of professionals as he did what the music asked of him, as his body became its slave. Yet, despite how the choreography seemed to integrate every one of them into its grasp like a mother to its children, Kurt began to notice that whilst every Cheerio had been nervous as hell before the game, none of them appeared to be so now. They appeared comfortable and at ease, blithe and dare he say, mellow. How did they do it? How did they avoid the fear of it all?

Stage fright usually occurred when one became disconnected from the onstage action. This disconnection, Kurt had read, might be the result of a momentary lapse in concentration and before you knew it, you found yourself rocket-propelled out of the world of the dance and hurled into a vortex of 'What happens next? What am I doing? What do I do?' Yet Kurt had rehearsed this choreography too often for it not to have been ingrained into his head like a searing hot poker, and he meant hot. There were no questions to be asked, he knew what he was doing and so as he traveled towards the front of the group, Kurt pulled himself together, right out of his thoughts and into the dance, moving himself very rhythmically to the beat.

_Come on, come out from the classroom_   
_from the office desk, from your uncleaned room_   
_sunglasses shading my eyes from the hot, blinding, stinging sunlight rays_   
_the tingling feeling of biting the ice in your mouth, the sky is clear and blue…_

The score was currently in the Titans' favor, something that offered a pleasant surprise to most and, by the look of it, they were set to win. Each and every one of the McKinley warriors were on their game. They weren't taking any hostages and they seemed to be channeling all of their frustrations of not winning a single match last season into their often brutal and deadly tackles. This seriously was no laughing matter, nothing to take lightly. No mercy was given to the opposing team no matter how ruthless it was. In fact, the spectators would often wince in discomfort as their eyes followed bone-breaking attacks and collisions that seemed to echo with screams! Cracks! As if splinters of bone were turreting out from flesh.

Kurt had a weak stomach when it came to gore. Just the image of carnage like butchery and blood and he'd faint right to the floor. It just made him that much happier that he was fully preoccupied. He couldn't afford to let his eyes wonder, to be looking at how skilled the players were or if anything bad were to happen to them, for all his attention was trained on getting his moves right. Sylvester had warned them that nothing stood out more than when people didn't know what the hell they were doing. Even the straightening of clothes, the minor adjustment of hair to the smallest finger flick in the wrong direction could be picked up easily from afar and Kurt be damned if he were to have his head mounted on a spike for doing it.

_Hot summer, a hot, hot summer_   
_hot summer, a hot, hot so hot_   
_hot summer, a hot, hot summer_   
_hot summer, a hot, hot, this is definitely to my taste..._

Coming to the midway point of the song as the first chorus ended, The Cheerios began to round off the first half of the choreography. At this time, Kurt should have been comforted and relieved that they were half way done, yet he was actually going to miss doing it. He'd grown quite attached to the melody and would forever associate it with the Cheerios, along with the catchy moves they were performing, fully stocked with hand shapes in the forms of fire and flame, robot-like tilts of the head and wagging fingers of a teasing nature. He enjoyed being a subtle flute, upon which the range of his humanity could play. He could access a multitude of nuances and present them to everyone through the apparatus of his hip-popping body.

Occasionally half the squad would freeze whilst the rest would perform around them and then vice versa. Synchronized dancing had only been reserved for the choruses while the verses were like human echoes of movement, corresponding, reverberating and working each with other to create a near work of art. It seemed like the coach had gone full out to incorporate different moves from every single type of dance out there from Ballet to Belly to Erotic to Street and to not just stick to the plain old generic contemporary. It was refreshing and if, for instance, Kurt was going to receive the boot from the squad tomorrow, at least he would have been able to learn to a small degree a large collection of dances out there.

_Let's show the sweating foreigners here_   
_if it's too hot, wear something long and black_   
_Yeah! It must be burning 'cause I got you sweating in this weather_   
_all them heads be turning, true that, you know I got it..._

Everything was going well. The bridge of the song had just ended and was building up to the final chorus. However, as Kurt was about to access his new position out of nowhere came an arm, hurtling towards him and smashing him dead on in the face. There had been too little time to dodge or even to prevent the accident from happening and whether it was done deliberately or not was yet to be determined. All he could do was yelp in agony as his hands shot up to his nose; his unsteady legs stumbling back as he bumped into the cheerleader behind him. There he was pushed back into his position in a vain attempt to cover the hustle, but it was too late. The damage had been done, and it could get worse from here.

Due to the sheer force whichever cheerleader had accidentally pushed him, Kurt lost his footing, tripped on a mound of earth in the grass and fell to the ground, his head hitting the warm hard ground below with a thud. Immediately, His vision began to blur until for several seconds he couldn't see. His brain felt like it was expanding, adding increasing pressure to his skull like an out of control tumor. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. It was as if he was completely paralyzed there on the floor in front of dancing girls, his legs shaking, trembling in spurts as if in mid seizure and as Kurt lay there, feeling the mortification wash over him and looking as pathetic and pitiable as ever, his eyes swelled with tears.

_Come on, come out from the classroom_   
_from the office desk, from your uncleaned room_   
_sunglasses shading my eyes from the hot, blinding, stinging sunlight rays_   
_the tingling feeling of biting the ice in your mouth, the sky is clear and blue…_

Whimpering as he raised his head, Kurt spread his hands out over the ground, his fingers grasping at the blades of grass for support. He wanted to pull himself up with any remaining energy that hadn't yet been beaten from his body, yet he stopped as he felt a warm trickle of liquid descending down his chin, forming a small pool of red underneath. Kurt gasped in shock. Wiping his nose with one of his trembling fingers, he looked on in continued horror at the collection of blood that was now staining his pale flesh. At the same time his vision began to become clearer and clearer to the point where he realized there was lot more blood than he'd thought. It was enough to make him heave, until a sudden pain shot through his nose.

His nose. Oh no. What if he'd broken his nose? What if what had happened had broken the baby nose his mother had given him? Kurt pleaded with hope to keep his injured nose very much intact, to keep it in shape, to keep it as it was as it bled profusely. Yet at this distressing thought, his watering eyes nearly made free with cascading tears. He couldn't believe this was happening again, due to the set of events he had caused through someone else's incompetent behavior. He just couldn't believe it. With each tear drop that fell, a droplet of blood accompanied it on the ever green grass below. Drop, drop and drop. It seemed never-ending, painful to witness forever, until a set of hands landed on his arms.

 

_Hot summer, a hot, hot summer_   
_hot summer, a hot, hot so hot_   
_hot summer, a hot, hot summer_   
_hot summer, a hot, hot, this is definitely to my taste_

Finally being helped back onto his feet, his legs now struggling to support his weight, Kurt turned to see both Quinn and Brittany scanning him for any further injuries except for his bleeding nose and bruising head. He was begging them to say that it wasn't that bad, that the pain was just deluding him into thinking it was, but by the looks of alarm that seemed to widen their eyes and clasp with hands to their gasping mouths, he knew the delusion was very much real. As a result, his tears flooded out like the Hoover dam. He felt like everyone was staring at him, looking at him as if he were a circus freak trapped behind bars in a cage and if there was one thing he hated above all else, was to feel like someone with no way out.

His nosebleed had not at all ceased flowing like a crimson river which meant by this point, his hands was rapidly finding themselves fully drenched in blood. Brittany had closed her eyes to stop herself from becoming queasy at the sight and, as a result, she had left him in the care of Quinn, the blonde winding her arm around his waist as his tears streamed down his cheeks. Carefully weaving themselves through the pointing and whispering Cheerios, Kurt kept his head forever down, his dignity now forever buried. His attention was fully focused on getting himself to the nearest sink but as he began to hear chants and calls of the Titan's running back by his fellow team mates, Kurt raised his head to see one peculiar sight.

Puckerman was jogging there in the center of the field, having just caught the ball, but instead of running down to score, to lead his team to victory, he was looking Kurt's way, coming to a stop, now standing motionless. Kurt couldn't make out the jock's face very well, what with it hidden by his helmet some distance away, but he knew those traveling hazel eyes were on him, the bloodstained doll, that full baby face now emaciated looking, dazed, with bruised eyes looking right back at the precarious positioned running back, holding the ball. He was the center of everyone's attentions. He was in the limelight of the steaming sun, yet in for an early exit as the players on the opposing team charged at him, war like, all trained to kill.

Yet Puckerman remained exactly where he was, with studded shoes that didn't move an inch, as if he didn't seem to want to, as if he was more concerned for Kurt's well-being, as if he of all people was more perturbed by the sight of Kurt harmed, completely dismissing the game he was playing, almost asking it to go screw itself. The scarlet glove Kurt was now sporting, smelling of sweet copper, with his bloodied and tear-stained face sure did present an eye-catching picture, but that wasn't it. It didn't seem like it anyway. Although his vision was compromised with white stars dotting his upper eye line, Kurt thought he saw a brief expression of worry and fear cross the jock's face, his eyes shining with an emotion akin to genuine care.

The whimpering, the confusion of it all. Kurt was confused at the sight of those hazel eyes following him like ball bearings rolling in their sockets, staring at him as if Puckerman had never stared at anybody else, staring at him as if he'd now ceased to know what he was doing, and it was in this helplessness in him, a kind of sick drowning look in his face - and that face, that jocky, macho face - that lodged deep in Kurt, now asking to himself, 'isn't this what this boy wanted? My blood?' As if Kurt was his injured girlfriend with the jock set to ditch the ball and run over to him, to ask him if he was all right, to scoop him up in his arms and dash him off to the nurse's office as if he'd just suffered a fall, with blood at his crotch, weak, the baby dying.

Within the next minute, Puckerman had been thrown to the ground, suddenly in a harsh tackle that had him both roaring in both pain and anger, cries of protest erupting from the bleachers with Kurt now quick to look away with eyes tight shut, so tight he was wincing. He was not to see how the ball was stolen from Puckerman's grasp or how the jock had eyes only for him as he lay sprawled on the ground, getting up, panting like a dog. Kurt was to see none of it, for he could feel it, as he could feel the blood gushing like a broken faucet; Puckeman wishing to run over to him, to snatch him from Quinn's grasp as if she was touching his property, barking 'get your hands off of him!', and to whisk Kurt away, the boy astonished, frightened.

Rounding the corner of the bleachers, Quinn directed him to the entrance of the school, it's halls quiet, empty; all they could hear now was the sounds of their footsteps along with the faint ravenous roar from the game outside. Quinn's arm was still wrapped supportively around him like a human crutch, surprisingly strong as they neared the nurse's office, to get him help. There had been aiders on the pitch, reserved only for the actual players, but Kurt needed more than mere flimsy bandages to wrap around him like a post surgery patient. He wanted painkillers to flood his system, to pop them like candy, to wash away the many thoughts inside his skull, like a cascade of shattered flying glass, thoughts of his trip up, thoughts of Puckerman.

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

Originally there had been a cloth with ice chips wrapped inside to press to his head, his face so hot he melted them all, yet it was replaced with a fresh pack soon after, though no less damp. The droplets made to dampen his now unruly and unkempt hair, his nose had been cleaned up from the blood that had been pumping still, some drying. He'd lost a lot of blood, or so he was told, but dizzy when told, the nurse having had to snap her fingers in those blue eyes to keep him awake, to keep him blinking. She'd told him to go home and rest, to take the pills and to take them responsibly, no overdosing, warning him not to after he'd allegedly pleaded her for them, again as if he was a kid wanting candy. The pain would disappear soon enough.

His return journey to the boys' locker room, however, was interrupted as with a bang that awakened the throbbing in his head, he looked down the hall to see Satana storming towards him, having flung the doors open with such force they'd bounded off the walls and swung once again, leaving plaster to crumble where the handles had stabbed them, the glass now perilously rattling in their frames as if they were about to crack and break. If they had, they would have rendered the Latina's entrance that much more domineering, how she marched up to both him and Quinn, her hands on her hips like jugs, nostrils unattractively flared to let forth breath that had that smell of anger, mottled red raged anger that had her now screaming.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Hummel?! What was up with fucking up our performance like that?! You ruined everything!" Barked Santana as both Kurt and Quinn took a step back. "Now because of you, we had to perform the final routine with two Cheerios short and all because you went and clumsily fell over like a rag doll! I mean what the hell was with that?! Are you purposefully trying to give us all new material to use against you?! Because if you are, then keep going, you're on a roll!"

Adjusting the ice pack on his head, Kurt attempted to reply to these accusations but was stopped as Santana ploughed on. He'd never seen her this furious before. The vein on her forehead was close to popping. "Sylvester's going to kill you, you know! She's out there right now planning how to tear you limb from limb so I hope you're fucking proud of yourself, Hummel! I said you would cost us everything and I was right! You've weighed us all down and you've fucking cost us everything!"

Kurt's blood froze. Amidst all that had happened, he'd completely forgotten about Sylvester. Now he was really going to get it now. After this, he'd cemented himself as the bad luck charm to every performance he'd performed in to date at McKinley. It was Sylvester, not Santana who was going to end him now. "And what the hell was with that look you gave Puckerman afterwards?! I saw you looking at him, the lovey-dovey looks you gave each other, I saw it all! Don't think I didn't, Hummel!"

Blinking in her wake, both Kurt and Quinn frowned at her denouncing words. The boy knew what Santana was talking about; the look he'd shared with Puckerman was still fresh in his mind, but 'lovey-dovey'? Where had she got that from? Judging by Quinn's equally confused expression that was etching deeper onto face, neither did she understand the Latina's delusions. There was always the possibility that Puckerman had been staring at her after all, as Quinn had been right next to Kurt. It was likely and even if it wasn't the case, in the end, it made far more sense than what he had envisioned originally, but yet even Kurt didn't believe that. He and Puckerman's eyes had connected in that moment, in that time. What had it meant?

One thing for certain was that it hadn't meant along the lines of 'lovey-dovey'. Santana's anger and possible jealousy were driving her to say things that  _so_  weren't true. "Santana, what is your problem? I barely looked at your stupid boyfriend. He's the one who stopped playing in the middle of a game; I mean you should be taking this up with him. It's not my fault he gets so easily distracted. Just goes to show the kind of attention span he has in football as well as… other areas."

Quinn snorted in amusement before quickly bringing her hand up to muffle her laughter, laughter Santana didn't welcome well. She glared daggers at the smug-looking boy before nearing him, her hands forming themselves into fists. The girl was getting worked up over nothing. She was purposefully picking a fight and was going to use whatever less than supported reason to achieve it. It was possible that whilst Kurt hadn't been around to shout at, Sylvester may have taken out her anger on Santana, the Head Cheerio. The Head Cheerio was the leader of the squad, seconded under the coach or matriarch, Sylvester, and so who ever was closer to her in ranking was unfortunately closer to the brunt of her infamous temper.

"Why are you even threatened that he looked at me anyway? It's not like you believe he's anything short of being heterosexual, right?" Asked Kurt sarcastically. In the last seconds, he'd learned of Santana's relationship insecurities and amidst all that personal doubt lay a bond of trust that didn't exist between her and Puckerman. Interesting. "I mean, your boy dared to do the unspeakable, glance at the same sex. What are you going to do? Call out the National Guard?"

"Don't get smart with me, Hummel."

"I'm only making up for your lack of intelligence."

"What did I just say?"

"Um... that you're stupid."

"You know Hummel, if you hadn't nearly been beaten to a pulp out there then I would have had no problem with going all Lima Heights on your rainbow glitter-crapping ass right here, right now," Santana threatened as Kurt proceeded to take a few steps back from the menacing Latina, who was still walking towards him, hoping to close the distance between them. Yet as she continued with her verbal onslaught, Kurt couldn't be more convinced that her relationship was as phony as they came.

"I don't trust you Hummel, you or Little Miss Peroxide over here. You can act innocent and fucking clueless all you want, I don't care, because I know something is going on. Puck doesn't just stop in the middle of a football game to look at cack pipe cosmonauts like you, even if they do catapult someone like Becky Jackson to supermodel stardom in comparison, so just back off, stay away from him or you and your uphill-gardening ass will be in world of pain."

Barging through them, and purposefully shoving Kurt's shoulder aside as she made her way over to the girls' locker rooms at the end of the corridor, Santana stormed away, her pony tail moving from side to side at such a rate that Kurt swore he could hear it swishing. Yet at the pain that shot up his shoulder like a bullet, he winced as he rubbed it soothingly with his hand, throwing the Latina the deadliest glare he could dredge up as she disappeared around the bend. She knew he had been roughly injured, she knew he'd just come from the nurse, but she had still taken it upon herself to take advantage of his handicap, as if she were always picking the weakest link in others before smashing it with as much force as she could.

"Kurt, are you alright? She didn't hurt you too much did she?" Asked Quinn in concern as she took in the way Kurt was now nursing his shoulder. Turning his head to face his friend, the boy's glare morphed into a small smile as he shook his head. In truth, it had hurt, but not that much. It felt as though his body was now prone to bruising like a peach, both inside and yet as Quinn escorted him back to the boy's locker room door; he felt the pain dissipate as the blonde continued to speak.

"Don't worry about it, Kurt. You just have to learn to stay out of her way; otherwise she doesn't pose that much of a threat. I heard that when she was young, her dad would often swing her into traffic, order her to take candy from strangers and ask odd-looking men if they had a van. I don't know about you but there might be a link there that no one else may have noticed. Anyway, do you want me to stay outside and wait for you? Do you think you'll need help in there at all?"

"I think I'll survive, Q. I mean the game must be finished by now so I think most of the players will have changed and left by now. Plus, my dad is here and he'll be able to drive me home, but thanks for the offer," replied Kurt gratefully as Quinn nodded and pulling him in for a friendly hug. Yet as she pulled away, Kurt held onto her arm, a smile on his face "Thanks Quinn, for helping me back there on the pitch. You didn't have to, but you did, and it was very good of you, so... thank you."

"Oh Kurt, you know I'd have helped you no matter what. I couldn't have left you lying on the ground like that, it wouldn't have been right," smiled Quinn, laying her hand on Kurt's as she spoke earnestly. She'd not seen who'd hit the boy, she actually wouldn't have put it past Santana, but when Kurt had fallen, she'd darted over to him as quickly as she could. "However, apart from the little tumble, I've got to say that you were great out there. You really were good. I'm so proud of you."

"You think so? Oh, that's good. Fingers crossed it'll go better next time. That's if there's going to be a next time. Sylvester might kick me off the squad, but at least I had fun whilst it lasted," replied Kurt as the thought of being kicked off the Cheerios seemed to affect him more personally than he'd thought it would. Huh. He'd really grown to like being a cheerleader. "We'll still be friends if I get the boot, right? I mean we can still hang out together. You, me and Britt?"

"Don't be ridiculous Kurt, of course we will. Whatever made you think we wouldn't? I mean, even if Sylvester does throw you out, which I'm pretty sure she won't, she is really that fond of you, Brittany and I will still talk to you," assured Quinn. "The social status in this school can go fuck itself; it won't stop me from inviting you round for slumber parties. Oh, which reminds me, I'm having one next week. Wanna come? We're going to make Tiki Death Punch, have pillow fights and make out."

"Make out?"

"You'd be surprised how punch can turn lips into sluts of their own."

"So do you and Brittany drink punch often?"

"Yeah, it makes us dizzy."

"Well, have me film you and Britt doing that to show to the guys here and we could make a fortune," giggled Kurt as he firmly accepted the invitation with an enthusiastic nod of the head. He'd not yet been to a slumber party before. There hadn't been anyone to invite to him to one, neither had there been anyone to invite if he'd wished to hold one himself, but this one sounded cool. Booze and sexual experimentation. Sounded like a party to him. "Alright Q, I've got to go change. See ya."

Leaning in to kiss her on the cheek, Kurt grinned before they both parted ways for their designated locker rooms with smiles decorating their faces. Spirits had been raised since an accident and Kurt now had a spring in his step. Yet his mind was racing with what Quinn had said regarding Santana's upbringing. He didn't know that much about the Latina, not that he cared to know, but it seemed that at this particular high school, students who had suffered due to poor parenting as children had undergone unfortunate transformations into the biggest pricks around. First Puckerman with his father and now Santana with hers. Tapping his chin with his little finger, Kurt frowned. What was wrong with the fathers in this town?

As the locker room door behind him swung closed, Kurt discovered that his prediction, what with practically no one being in there except for two footballers and one of the other male cheerleaders, was correct. Quite a shallow victory if he said so himself. Though it was better than having lots of bummed-out looking boys cluttered around each other with pissed off expressions on their faces. It was determined by the success on the fields. In fact, Kurt didn't know as of yet who'd won today's match. He supposed if the Titans hadn't broken their losing streak yet again, venting in the form of annoying taunts would have been such a stress relief for them and the perfect substitute to a punching bag, but it was also quite lonely.

Ever since he'd used the locker rooms, Kurt had been getting dressed and showering by himself with no one to talk to, no one to communicate with, being the one to feel alone. Sometimes it was refreshing to be by oneself with only your many thoughts to accompany you, but that only went for people who were crowded by others with no time to process the mind. Kurt was not one of those people. He never would be within these walls and possibly within Lima's city limits. It only reinforced the loser classification so rudely stamped on his forehead, but now that he was faced with the sight of other people within a room that heavily stank of cheap day old deodorant and sweaty feet; his spirits were raised even further.

"Are you alright, Kurt? You looked like you came down hard back there," came a voice behind him and as he whipped around to see one of the tallest players on the football team, Finn Hudson, dressed in his home clothes with his sport's bag slung over his shoulder, he didn't know what to say. He hadn't really talked to the boy; in fact, this was the first time they'd engaged in a conversation and to say that he was just like the others might have been incorrect.

Finn was never in the crowd of jocks when Puckerman was around to pick on him, though it did seem at times that they were good friends judging by the way they hung out with each other. In fact, sometimes they looked as though they were best friends who'd known each other since kindergarten. Funny how they were so unlike. "I saw you fall and saw the blood and everything. Did you break your nose, because it looked really painful from where I was standing."

"No, it's not broken. It would be if I'd been harder, but no. I still don't actually know which one of the girls hit me but I think that's sort of irrelevant now," replied Kurt, flashing Finn a smile as the tall boy scoured his face for any more painful marks that might have littered his appearance skin. It was a nice gesture Kurt had to admit, as he pulled out his toiletries from his locker, but what he really wanted was to have no one looking at him. He was far from looking at his best.

His injured nose had resulted in his under eye circles tripling in size, depth and darkness, and he knew not even the thickest concealer or the cleverest makeup trick could hide their vulgar appearances. "Don't worry about me Finn, I'll be fine. I just need to lie down a lot from now on and be a lot more attentive to any potential flying arms that might come at me from any direction. At least you did well on the field. Not in the war sense, but you know what I mean. Did the Titans win?"

"No, we drew, but I really thought we wouldn't. I had this feeling that this game was going to be different from all others, but I guess we weren't meant to win… or we could have if Puck hadn't been so distracted," answered Finn, blowing out an annoyed huff of air as he readjusted his bag. He looked over at Kurt who appeared as if he wanted him to continue and so, feeling like he just needed to bash his best friend that little bit more for his less than observant behavior, he relented.

"Well, there we were playing, like not even three minutes in and the ball had been passed to Puck so that he could go score, but instead of running, he just stood there with it in his hand, staring at the fucking Cheerios. I mean, what the fuck? He's screwed most of them but he chose right then and there to stare at them. Then he got himself tackled and the other team got the ball and... God. Coach Tanaka was so pissed," recounted Finn as Kurt winced at the image of a furious Tanaka.

"After that, that's when it really started going downhill. He wasn't nearly as focused as he should have been, he wasn't as fast, his stupid mohawked head really wasn't in the game. It was in the fucking clouds. I mean, every five minutes he'd look back at the Cheerios every single freaking time, as if he was picking which one he wanted to screw behind Santana's back. Or at least it looked that way. I have no idea what he was doing. The idiot," seethed Finn has he kicked at the ground.

"Well, Puckerman does have a weakness for the ladies, doesn't he. Maybe Santana's not putting out for him all that much now, I don't know," replied Kurt, quickly snapping his mouth shut as Finn glared back at him. "Look Finn, I know you feel like Puckerman cost you the game, and you maybe want to kill him right about now, but there must have been other things that could have gone better, no? There must have been other contributing factors like... well like..."

The senses in Kurt's mind were blowing as he realized what he was doing; he was defending on a small level, the boy who was single-handedly destroying his high school career. Why was he doing this? It just didn't make any sense whatsoever, but he was glad, however, that Finn had mistaken Puckerman's actual line of sight for something else. If he hadn't, there was more than a likely chance the tall boy wouldn't have been talking to him right now, going onto think exactly what Santana had thought with all that 'lovey-dovey' nonsense. Or maybe not. Maybe Finn would have gone on to criticize Puck anyway and nothing would have changed. They'd still be here talking and basking in their shared hatred of a certain mohawked jock.

"I don't think you have anything to worry about, Finn. I least you drew. Depending on how you interpret about it, both of you lost, or both of you won. You've just to think positive," assured Kurt, offering Finn a friendly smile. "You played very well out there, you did your best. To be honest, I'm impressed any of you can play with us dancing around with the girls' skirts so high the world is their gynecologist. Any higher and Puckerman would have been having sex with one right there on the pitch."

"Well that wouldn't have been anything new."

"You're not serious."

"Yeah, he once screwed a Cheerio behind the goal post. Everyone thought he was peeing for a really long time."

"Oh my God... well, at least he had the public decency not to do it again."

"I guess. It didn't bother me before. Same for the Cheerios. You get too emerged in the game to notice anyone in the bleachers let alone the girls cheering you on from the sidelines. If you're not, you have learn to kind of block it out, something Puck failed epically on," replied Finn, bringing his hand through his dark hair in frustration as Kurt sighed to himself, readjusting his hold on his towel and toiletries. He wanted to offer more words of comfort, but they melted on his tongue.

"Look, I have to go Kurt; I need to check up on Puckerman. I think while he was stargazing, the player who tackled him really brought him down hard. He was complaining about his shoulder or arm or whatever. It was good talking to you and I hope you get better soon. See you around," replied Finn, offering Kurt a smile before walking over to the door and exiting the room, leaving the brunet yet again on his own. Yet Kurt's mind was stewing with more thoughts than he could handle.

It was evident that Finn was still harboring deep resentment towards his friend for his poor performance. In fact, every single player on that team must have been blaming Puckerman just like every Cheerio, except for Quinn and Brittany, was blaming Kurt for ruining their routine when it wasn't his fault. Sylvester was going to tear him a new one, and Tanaka had most likely torn Puckerman's Mohawk from his head. To everyone, both of them were to blame, the disappointments, the ruiners. Yet it hadn't really been Puckerman's fault either, had it. Kurt dipped his head and stared hard down at the ground, the grip on his towel and other possessions tightening still. _It was neither of our faults. We were like two moths to the flame... and burnt._

Pulling himself from out of his thoughts, Kurt proceeded to undertake another lonely task in a now empty locker room, his spirits which had once raised themselves now plummeting back down from whence they came. He supposed he could take comfort in the fact that no one was around to prank him _,_  as he made his way to the showers, stripping himself of his ruby-stained uniform while switching on the shower. The place was jock free and Kurt reveled in the perks of when being alone wasn't all that bad. However, as he adjusted the temperature of the water before drenching his body in it, the clear liquid washing the anxieties of the match away, little did he know of a set of prowling eyes watching him intently from beyond...


	8. Mall

That Saturday found Kurt driving to the Lima shopping mall, ready to spend the day outside his new home and in a public space. He hadn't really been anywhere else in town apart from McKinley and his house for the past few weeks, and he'd thought it time to broaden the view. Checking his reflection in the windshield mirror, he was happy to see that his face had returned to its former pristine image. His nose had gradually healed and the consequent swelling around it reduced before disappearing for good. It was very much a relief. He hadn't wanted to slap on the pancake makeup and, most importantly, he hadn't wanted a reminder of the week's football game to stare right back at him every time he passed a mirror.

That day, after he'd showered in the locker rooms, Coach Sylvester had barged in and held him up at asphyxiation point, asking why she shouldn't just chop him up and stuff the pieces in the locker right behind him. Within seconds, a stuttered explanation of the actual event came spluttering out of his mouth and only then did the coach's raised hand lower itself by her side. To Sue, this boy resembled too much an exquisite gay lamb who couldn't even squish a ladybug let alone a fly to deliberately mess up her routine. He reeked of purity, not to mention virginity and there was just something about him that didn't look like he could do such a thing. Maybe it was the eyes. After all, his twin pools were dead giveaways.

In the end, Kurt had admitted to not knowing who the 'culprit' had been, a term she'd spat with fury, and he'd listened with dread as she had explained that if he were to ever come across the idiot that had injured her 'baby Liberace' and subsequently screwed up the whole formation beyond repair, he was to drag her to her office and bring her before the dragon lady herself. The boy didn't even want to know what kind of torture devices Sylvester had stashed in her office. They were most likely racks, nail removers or scissors to cut up tanning coupons at the local private spa. Either those or a large Cheerio uniform shredder that recycled the fabric into a beauty queen sash with 'Little Miss Failure' stitched on the front.

Now as Kurt parked his car, collected his bag and hopped out, firmly shutting and locking it, he strolled his way towards into the mall. He had a little shopping to do, but not the kind you might expect. For you see, one hobby many people didn't know Kurt to have – besides finding the greatest bargains for simple designer items of clothing or taking advantage of a fifty per cent off skincare sale – was drawing. Ever since he'd turned thirteen, interest in art and design had rocketed within him and he was here at the mall to shop for a new watercolor box, study the collection of creations at the small painting exhibition that was being held at the shopping center and to sketch the everyday life of the traditional Lima civilian.

Kurt had discovered he'd really had a knack for outlining still life objects like the traditional bowl of fruit or glass of wine but today he wanted to spread his horizons by drawing people within their surroundings and what better environment than a mall jam-packed with life. One other thing to mention was that he hadn't studied drawing before, or received anything close to tutoring, and it had surprised him as well as his father that he hadn't taken it up at school, though this was partly because the Art department at McKinley was severely under stocked and understaffed and that it would only be a waste of time. Plus, the whole thing to him was merely an out-of-school activity and studying it would very much suck the fun out of it all.

As Kurt entered the vast shopping center, he smiled to himself, a smile which, however, quickly diminished when he remembered the last time he was here. A group of jocks, Puckerman, an insult. It hadn't been a good day or good first day at that, and so he shook his head vigorously to rid himself of the negative memory. Locating the art and crafts store on the map, Kurt made his way to its location on the second floor. The place literally had everything from brushes and markers of every size and use, portfolios, calligraphy sets and easels that were stacked along the wall in varying sizes and at the far end were the paints, pastels and pencils, spanning the whole back display in a myriad of colors that dazzled his eyes.

Of course, with not knowing an awful lot about it all, Kurt had consulted the elderly man behind the desk regarding their bestsellers, their most positively reviewed products and their new arrivals, finally landing himself with a light beige watercolor box that looked as if it really had been polished to perfection. Inside was a A4 Sketch pad, a water bottle, an assortment of final tipped brushes and a leaflet, as well as more than fifty watercolor pencils that spanned the tray below. This was going to last him a very long time and as Kurt thoughtfully thanked the awfully kind and helpful cashier and possible owner of the store, Kurt waved back at him and made his way towards the center of the mall where the art exhibition was being held.

The size of it wasn't anything to boast about really, but there was a handy selection of paintings ranging from naturalism to the bold, abstract and grotesque. Being a novice in this world of paint and canvas, Kurt had yet to fully appreciate the works that really made no sense to him or looked as if it had only taken less than thirty-seconds to make. He was always open-minded to the strange and downright bizarre. With that aiding him to see beyond the obscurities the average person wouldn't be able to fathom, he was able to examine every single piece on the little white walls that had been constructed, their little lights dangling from above to help illuminate each work and often the odd photograph scattered here and there.

It was also quite interesting to see other people's reactions when viewing the pieces, not to mention amusing. Kurt had smiled to himself when he had seen a middle-aged woman investing a lot of time staring at the painting that he himself had believed had the power to turn even the most passionate art lover into a philistine, along with a white canvas that had looked as if black and pink paint had been carelessly thrown at it. It had been appropriately named 'The Bone White Sea of the Blackened Rose' by the artist Heriah Paulana and it had been priced at a shockingly high number of twelve hundred dollars, a figure that had instantly made Kurt wince as he had stared, shocked and speechless at the poor attacked canvas.

After scanning every single piece of art available to see, Kurt went and purchased a hot chocolate from Café Nero and returned to sit on the bench near the exhibition. There, he waited for it to cool whilst he whipped his sketch pad out of his bag, flipped through it until he had reached a clean sheet, brought out a sharpened pencil before he began tapping it against his chin, his eyes narrowing as he looked up and down the mall. This was going to be hard. How was he supposed to draw people while they were moving around? This is what they must have covered in art classes. They didn't sound so unneeded now, he supposed as he set out to outline the shops, plants and benches in the background. He'd just have to figure it out.

Running his pencil across the paper, the lines Kurt was drawing appeared almost disconnected, but as he progressed through the drawing, the whole thing started to take shape. He wanted this picture to look as lifelike as possible, so he spent more time balancing everything out to the finest detail. Kurt weaved his pencil around the page, paying attention to the framing of his creation. Everything was taken into account from the proportion to scale, from depth to contrast. Everything was covered. He made little work of shading in the shadows on the floor and contouring the light on people's faces and, at one point, towards the top right hand corner where there was a pane of reflective glass from a shop, it looked as if he had drawn...

Wait a minute... he'd appeared to have drawn someone's head with a strip of something on it. Kurt frowned as he examined what he had done. Yes, it definitely resembled a shaved head of male proportions, but making out exactly what was on it took more time. Raising his head to the first floor window where he had seen the head reflected, Kurt's eyes squinted before widening once more. There it was, the head with a certain something that resembled... a Mohawk. Stilling, Kurt's eyes froze on the never-moving reflection. He couldn't see whether it was who he thought it was due to one of the mall's plants dumped annoyingly in the way, but judging by the head shape and dreadful haircut, he could have sworn it was  _ **him**_.

Tearing his eyes away from the unsettling sight, Kurt looked around. Everyone was still minding their own business. They were walking in and out of stores, hands full with items of clothing they'd probably only wear once and, oh, the occasional toddler rampaging past him high on sugar with a mother hot on its tail. Everything was as usual yet, as he once again brought his eyes back to the window, the mohawked head had disappeared, gone, was no longer there. Oh no. Oh God. Kurt could feel the pencil in his hand quivering. Looking down, he noticed he'd been very close to scribbling all over his drawing, the nib mere inches away from the paper, and so without a further hesitation, he placed it back in his bag and zipped it up.

Grabbing hold of his bag and sketchpad, Kurt rose to his feet and began to walk briskly towards the main exit, constantly glancing around and over his shoulder to see if the other boy was following. It felt as though he were living out the Minotaur legend reversed, the bull chasing Theseus through the Labyrinth, and of course along with the reversal would come the slaying of man instead of the one with horns on its head. Kurt knew he wasn't going to be 'slain' as such; he just didn't want to be caught. Being caught would mean another round of piercing derogatory words against his sexuality with maybe a little a little bruising here and there to remember his attacker by. Talk about a combo pack.

Darting his eyes to the second floor where Kurt had last seen the boy, his mouth gaped as the sight of a Mohawk was nowhere to be found. The boy was no longer there. Weaving his way through the crowds even faster now, his sketchpad still tightly clutched against his chest, Kurt tried desperately to breathe deeply and reasonably. His heart seemed to simmer slightly as the doors to the mall came into view, the light of the sun outside beaming through the glass, yet as he approached them, so close, so very, very near, the mohawked boy suddenly flew into sight in front of him, his dark eyes shining as Kurt almost screamed in horror, his mouth gasping, his blue eyes wide with fright. It was too late. The bull had caught him.

"Hey lady, how's it going? Not running away from me, I hope," smirked Puck, Kurt almost colliding into the chest of the jock in front as Puckerman steadied him by his shoulders before letting go, watching as the boy placed his hand over his chest to control his erratic breathing. As Kurt began to recover, he looked back up to see his chaser, Noah Puckerman, eying him with that irritating smirk of his. He should have known he'd never outrun a running back. The jock had legs like The Flash.

Yet setting aside Puckerman's impressive speed, the jock seemed to be thoroughly enjoying Kurt's bewildered state, which of course wasn't a first for him, but continuing to do it outside school grounds? Was that really necessary? Obviously, the mohawked boy didn't get enough of a kick during the week, so obviously the weekend was very much needed as well. "Just saw you drawing or whatever by that shitty art exhibition. I didn't know you could be freaked out so easily."

"I get freaked out a lot when my peripheral vision catches sight of your particular genus of human being: Neanderthal fuck," snapped Kurt as he brought both his hands to his chest once again, hugging his sketch pad as he did. His attempt at an insult should have worked, and it was a lot more profane than he'd usually go for, yet it didn't seem to deter the jock in front of him, who proceeded to place both his hands over his heart in a sign of mock hurt. This guy was unbelievable.

"I think that's the first time I've heard you swear, Hummel. It sounds kind of weird coming out of that prissy little mouth of yours," chuckled Puck as Kurt's hands clenched even tighter around his pad. If Puckerman thought it 'weird' of him to swear, he had a whole library left at his disposal. Then again, his most affective insults had never needed curses. Kurt had been intelligent enough to construct far more elaborate vituperations. "What's wrong, Hummel? I just wanted to say hello... hello."

"Leave me alone."

"Without having you say hello back? I don't think-"

"Leave. Me. Alone."

"Is that all you're gonna say? Geez, Humm-"

"Why don't you do me a favor and get yourself extinct, or at least go back to whatever the hell you were doing," Kurt ranted. "Whether that was fornicating with a mannequin in a shop window or planning the next great Lima heist where you'd no doubt get tasered before reaching within a hundred miles of the exit. I'd get a more stimulating experience from talking to a festering ulcer than you, so go hump a tree or impregnate a beam of concrete for all I care; just leave me alone!"

"I don't know why you're being all bitchy Hummel, but for someone who doesn't have periods you have a mean case of PMS," replied Puck as he brought his hands from his chest into the air in mock surrender. "I haven't said anything except ask you why you're running around like you're looking for the toilet before you shit yourself." Kurt's bright blue eyes glinted dangerously as he began to fume. He really had half a mind to repeatedly stab Puckerman with his sharpened drawing pencil.

However, as Puck took in Kurt's less than positive response, he chuckled mischievously before taking notice of the sketchpad held tightly in the boy's clenched hands. Kurt seemed to be protecting it as if it were his child, as if he'd do anything for no harm to come its way, and so as the jock came forward, he caught Kurt off guard, making him stumble backwards, the blue eyes morphing from anger to sudden fear. "Can I check out your little sketch pad thingy? I want to see if you're any goo-"

"Like hell you can!"

"Chill Hummel, I just want to see."

"I know what you're going to do."

"Uh huh, what's that?"

"I'm not stupid, Puckerman. You'll deface every drawing with crude doodles of penises in black marker. Either that or you'll mar the pages with grease from your fast food fingers and- Hey!" Kurt protested as Puck suddenly grabbed hold of the sketchpad, wrestling with the struggling boy before finally wrenching it out from Kurt's grasp. Holding it up high up in the air as if were a well-graded test paper, one he'd worked hard to cheat on and of course, succeeded, Puck smirked tauntingly.

In response, Kurt could only soothe his now searing hands, both the shade of crimson. Puckerman had pulled so hard at the pad that the sides of it had almost burned his skin from the friction. He'd had to let go. That and he hadn't wanted to rip and tear apart his favorite sketchpad, which contained within it pictures with more life than the jock could ever hope to have in his withered heart. "Give it back, Puckerman! It doesn't belong to you and you have no use for it. Hand it back to me now!"

"I don't think so, Hummel. I'd be better off drawing all over the mildly decent pictures in here whilst I burn all the ones that aren't, you know, to shield the world's eyes from your shitty work," replied Puck, tapping the pad against his palm as he began stepping away. In response, Kurt's face drained of color, his skin paling to the shade of a sheet. "Then again, they were all drawn by a little twinkle-toots like you so I guess I'll just have to set fire to them all. Liking the sound of that?"

In an attempt to grab hold of his sketchpad, Kurt made a swipe for it, but it was yet again an effort made in vain. Seeing as Puckerman was the athlete with agility rivaling Road Runner or Speedy Gonzales, the jock made easy work of dodging the attack as if Kurt were a toddler jumping up and down for its milk bottle. It was humiliating and as Puck whipped around and sprinted past him and further back into the mall, he shouted back, urging Kurt on. "If you want it, Gelfing, come and get it!"

It was a tough call. Kurt was torn between running out of the mall and slamming on the gas home or going after Puckerman and his poor sketchpad. In fact, he had favorable thoughts of just giving up and buying a new one. They weren't that expensive and the art store was just two levels up, problem solved. Yet when he remembered the fate of his poor school bag and how much distress it had suffered at the hands of those mentally deficient jocks, his fury bubbled to the surface. Not only was Puckerman going to deface his drawings but he was going to stick them on every wall in McKinley, as if each copy were like a kill he'd made from a hunt, as if he were pinning up a part of Kurt, each one mutilated beyond recognition.

In the next second flat, Kurt was chasing after Puckerman, making his way through the throngs of people, the awful haircut poking out through the flock of heads and acting very much as a powerful indication of his thief's whereabouts. Yet whilst this made it easier to stay track of Puckerman, that was not to say it was often easy to maintain speed. The chase was far from being a cakewalk. Plants, people and Goddamn toddlers were everywhere, turning the bustling mall into a course of parkour more than anything else. However, one thing Kurt did note was that it didn't look as if Puckerman had a particular destination in mind. Judging by his course, he kept passing exits which he could have easily made his way out of. What was he doing?

As Kurt finally made it to end of the mall, a section that oversaw the food court down below, he paused, resting his hands on his thighs as he tried to recapture his breath. Despite the Cheerios training routine and despite the stretching that went along with it, this little game of cat and mouse just showed that he still had quite a way to go before he was actually fit enough to run without panting like an over-excited dog. Then again he had been carrying a rather heavy watercolor box that had rammed against his leg whilst running, with no doubt all fifty pencils inside broken from all the shaking they'd been subject to. As the thought crossed Kurt's mind, he whined aloud as he pulled himself up. He couldn't catch a break could he?

Scanning the area around him, Kurt recovered from his little pause in the chase. He was fully prepped for another sprint yet as he looked around, there was no one to sprint after. Puckerman was long gone, disappeared amongst the Saturday shoppers. Oh joy. Continuing to glance around with half lidded eyes as if he couldn't be bothered any more, Kurt was just about to give up on the whole thing when he noticed his thief entering the local fancy dress and costumes store just a few meters away. What on earth was he going in there for? Kurt had to ask himself this as he frowned, making his way towards the shop. Surely the jock wasn't going to go buy something to disguise himself in. Then again, he was dumb enough.

With a set of hesitant footsteps, Kurt entered the average-sized store and looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of Puckerman. It might have been easier to do if there hadn't been mountainous stacks of wigs, masks, eye masks, outfits and various gizmos varying in size, shape, color and texture on numerous stands scattered literally everywhere. It was as if he'd stumbled upon the crash-site of both Toy and Candy Land, both their kingdoms' remains spread across their lands like a PB&J sandwich. Now, as Kurt suddenly felt as if he were looking for a needle in a haystack,  _screw my life_ , he caught sight of a bespectacled teenage girl behind the counter, her red hair tied loosely back into a pony tail as she looked incredibly bored.

She was leaning her head against her hand and casually reading, or more accurately flicking her way through her magazine, but as she caught sight of him, a 'What?' expression emerging on her face, she stopped. Kurt in that moment was expecting her to ask something along the lines of 'may I help you?' for which he would answer 'yes, a rampaging thief just stole my sketch pad and entered your store. Please direct me to your nearest net gun so I can shoot him down like the wild beast that he is'. However, no question was asked. Nothing was asked and as the girl eventually grew bored with the sight before her, she returned to her magazine.  _Fail,_ Kurt thought, blinking before walking further into the shop.  _Mega giant service fail._

The whole store seemed very well stocked. Every aisle was jam-packed full with outfits ranging from Tales of Olde England to 1920s Razzle to 1940s Wartime to School Days and to say that he wasn't sorely tempted to try on every single costume would have been a major lie. After all, it would always be interesting to come across an outfit he couldn't pull off, or at least one he wanted to look silly in. However, as his eyes strayed away from each packaged fetching costume, there came a faint rustling to his left. It was coming from over by the wigs section and as Kurt peered his head around the corner of the aisle he'd just come out of, his movements discreet with his breath short and light, he came across the 'wild beast' himself.

Puckerman was pulling on a Pimp Daddy Afro wig, adjusting it so that it fit his head and as he did, he then proceeded to examine himself in the wall length mirror before him. Kurt face palmed himself as he shook his head repeatedly. Puckerman's bad taste in everything was just worrying. The style and design of wig he was sporting really did not do him any favors. Then again, it was fancy dress. It wasn't as if it was real. It was all for laughs. Yet it didn't stop Kurt thinking the Mohawk looked far better than the Afro, and that was saying something. The jock would look far better wearing either a Fedora hat, Captain Cap or even bald, because even Kurt had to begrudgingly admit, Puckerman did have the head to pull it off.

As Kurt continued to ponder possibilities, he froze as Puckerman's eyes landed on an area of the mirror before the jock whipped around to face him. In response, Kurt could only remain frozen, his face not even moving a muscle. Yet as Puckerman had turned to face him rather briskly, his afro wig had jiggled ever so slightly, and right then and there, Kurt couldn't help himself. He burst into hysterical laughter, the mixture of Puckerman's taken aback expression coupled with his ridiculous 'do contributing to the amusing sight. He'd been so tense for the last ten minutes that his laughter just flew out of him like sonic relief. However, he was caught by surprise when his giggles receded to see Puckerman actually returning his laughter.

The jock's hazel eyes were shining with warmth and delight, as if he too could only see the funny side of it all, ending with a smile on his tanned face. Deciding that this was all becoming a tad odd, Kurt straightened up and briskly walked towards the selection of eye-catching wigs on the wall. He purposely ignored the jock as he scanned the vast array of fluffy headgear, but no matter how much effort he put into imagining he was alone by himself, he knew very well that Puckerman was right behind him, observing his every move. It was rather unsettling, feeling the jock's breath lightly rustling his hair as if he were on a fun fair ghost train with Puckerman as the skeleton man, climbing on the rear of his carriage and cooing behind his ear... softly.

Feeling the jock's breath evoking an unnerving shiver out of his frozen stance, Kurt forced his attention away from the erect hair on the back of his neck, to the wigs before him. Yet he changed his mind when seeing nothing he liked and as he absentmindedly looked to his left, Kurt noticed more headgear ranging from Wartime Officer and Aviator hats to pussycat and bunny ears lining the sidewall. The ears were all adorable, cute and irresistible and Kurt's eyes couldn't stop from softening at the sight. Plucking a black lace set of bunny ears and excitedly sliding them on, he rushed past Puckerman, who was chuckling in his wake, and came to a halt in front of the mirror, adjusting the fluffy apparel as well as his hair.

The problem in the end was that the ears lost all their sexual significance when placed on to his cute, saccharine features; he rendered the ears adorable, even with the Playboy logo noticeably stitched on the headband. Yes, he was pulling them off, but in the wrong way. It was rather counterproductive, but he'd have to go with it. When he was finally satisfied with what he saw, he turned around and fixed Puckerman with a mock serious expression, waiting in trepidation for the barks of laughter to come his way. He waited for it, any second now, here it came, almost there... nothing. Nothing came his way. Absolutely nothing, and all Kurt could do was blink. Where was the laughter? Where was the smallest trace of a chuckle?

This was all freaking him out. He wasn't sure what to make of the atmosphere that was changing between them. At the start of their encounter, it had been Puckerman stealing from him but now, now the jock was observing him in erotic headgear with an almost an aroused look that was so alien for Kurt to receive that he shivered once again at the sight. Now he was silently begging for laughter, begging for ridicule, anything. Only it would be able to cut the fat cake of awkwardness that had descended on them both, or mainly him. So, without another minute to think, Kurt raised his finger and wagged it playfully in a mock disciplinarian manner, accompanying the unconsciously sexy 'no touchy' action with a teasing round of 'ah, ah, ah'.

What he received in return, however, was not the reaction he'd been hoping for. He'd thought it would do the trick, to lower his eyelids in a desperate bid to rid Puckerman's face of  _that_  look, to make his limited sex appeal become the ultimate laughing gas _._ Good news was, Puckerman was no longer looking at him that way. The bad news, he'd replaced the grin he'd had with a smirk, but not any old smirk, but  _the_  smirk. The smirk that had one's virginity screaming for cover, grabbed hold of and fucked repeatedly. Only difference was, Kurt was a boy. It was enough of a barrier to keep even Puckerman at bay, even though the infamous expression that had been responsible for so many roof-raising orgasms, remained very much present.

"They suit you... like really suit you," breathed Puck, his eyes raking over the headgear before finally landing his gaze on the exquisite blue orbs in front of him. He wouldn't have guessed that a guy would be able could pull off such head gear, but somehow Hummel could. He brought out the innocence the likes of a woodland creature from something drenched in sex, yet sex remained very much there, like an erotic perfume. Playboy Bunnies at the club could learn a thing or two from Hummel.

"You think so? I feel a little silly with them on," replied Kurt, tearing his eyes away before the mirror once more. To him, the longer he had these ears on, the more he felt ridiculous. He needed an outfit to go with. The ears looked silly on their own, yet as Puckerman came to stand behind him, removing his wig and eying Kurt's reflection, thoughts of anything disappeared. He was not used to the jock being this close to him, because he was close, really close. "I-I'll take them off no-"

"Don't."

"Why not?"

"I mean, yeah, take them off but... um, you know, reserve them for later."

"Later?"

"Yeah, I mean, you should buy them, or not, whatever, it's your choice. Do whatever you want," rambled Puckerman as Kurt eyed the jock's blush that seemed to rise like the flickers of a fire up the tanned slopes of his cheeks. Averted hazel eyes, shuffling feet and hands jammed down deep in pockets, all classic signs of nerves, as if the jock were asking a girl out for the very first time. This was just getting odder, wasn't it? "Um... how about you try this on? You might think it suits you better."

Blinking, Kurt was brought of his thoughts at the clearing of a throat as Puckerman moved away, only to return to shove a Mickey Mouse headband into Kurt's unsuspecting hands. Looking down at it, the boy shrugged before removing his black lace bunny ears, putting the headband on, adjusting it and looking in the mirror. That mirror would stay put, but the reflection in it wouldn't. It would change constantly from one headband to another, one smiling expression to another. In some ways, Kurt felt as though he were trying on his wardrobe for a Disney hair, makeup and costume test, being asked for headshots, mid shots and full-length shots in his collection of wacky attire. He really did feel like exclaiming, 'now this is my style!'

Yet Kurt never thought he'd find his new 'style' here, for he never would have guessed that he and Puckerman would be spending their Saturday afternoon together, trying on 1980s wigs and around the world comedic hats to full on outfits ranging from caveman costumes to cowboys and Indians to Hawaiian luau. The matter of his stolen sketchpad had long been forgotten and was no doubt lying somewhere on the floor under the piles of costumes they'd checked out, as if the chase from before had lost all significance. In fact, not only that but everything that had happened between them earlier had been forgotten in favor of hysterical laughing and the silly antics of two boys who were anything but completely similar.

Kurt had just waddled out of the changing room wearing a baby boy romper outfit when Puck came sauntering out from the one next to his, wearing of all things, a condom man costume. Kurt had to stifle a roar of laughter as the jock made to gallivant around the store, casually waving at the perplexed window shoppers and saying hello to a set of children by the cashier who, with the girl behind the desk, threw him disturbed looks that only made Kurt continue to giggle harder, giggles that followed Puck until he returned from his little trip around the shop before stopping to stand right in front of Kurt, his hands on his hips as he impersonated the superhero named after, of all things, a sexual barrier device.

"Oh, Puckerman. You should wear that this Halloween. You'll be a mascot sized reminder to all boys to bring their love gloves along," Kurt giggled as he picked up the condom man product packet and examined it. It was turning out that the model on the front cover wasn't the only one who could pull off such an outfit. "I mean, if you're going for comedic, that is. If you aren't, then I don't suggest that you try on that vicar and tart costume by your left because that's sure to be controversial."

"Really, where?" asked Puck as he followed Kurt's nod. There on the side was, indeed, another profane and heavily sexual outfit he'd yet to try on. It consisted of a set of black robes with a silver cross on the chest and a blow up doll attached to the front so that the rear of the woman bent itself over the groin area of the outfit. It had Puckerman written all over it, and judging by the jock's expression, the outfit was written all over Puckerman's face. It just wouldn't be him if he didn't try it on.

Yet, Kurt still couldn't get over Puckerman as condom man. It was just such an appropriate outfit for someone like him to slap on, considering he had them on all the time. Adjusting his costume around his groin, the jock descended into chuckles at the vicar outfit, before turning to Kurt once more, his smirk wide. "I'm so going to check that out, but not before I try on the army costume. I want to see if it'll leave enough room to show off my guns and pecs. I can't be 'Sergeant Bulge' without them."

"I don't think it will, considering the jacket will conceal the majority of your physical attributes. How about you just forget the jacket and paint your chest black, brown and green, as well as your face? It would add to the whole camouflage thing you could have going on, you know, be Sergeant Bulge, but in the Pacific," Kurt suggested as he picked up the army man product packet, removed the sleeves from the jacket and handed the rest to Puckerman, who gladly took them up.

"Of course, don't go covering your body here, but at a party say, and don't overdo it either," Kurt continued, as Puckerman considered the rather good suggestions the boy was voicing. Combat boots, army trousers and shirtless. He'd get  _so_  laid. "By 'Sergeant Bulge' I suppose you want to look like a sexualised soldier, equipped to get down and ready for action with some damsel in distress, but resembling the Incredible Hulk or the Booger Man? No, no. Now that would be a real turn off."

"Good point. Chicks really don't dig that."

"Are you going to try it on then? The trousers and the boots?"

"Sure. What about you?"

"I don't know. I think I've worn the store by now."

"How about the Pharaoh outfit, or being an Egyptian slave boy?" Suggested Puck, pointing on over to both costume packets on the wall. Looking over at them, Kurt smiled. He would look great as a Pharaoh. A bejeweled headdress, weaving snake armbands, an opulant kalasiris, a long white kilt fastened with a gold belt and finally, an accompanying sceptre that could be weaved like the right hand of God himself. Kurt couldn't believe he'd missed it, before his eyes fell on the slave boy outfit.

It was far less impressive looking than its Pharaoh counterpart, what it lacking in the regal colors of purple and yellow, as well as jewelry, but there something definitely something erotic about it. A simple kalasiris, very short kilt and sandals were included, but Kurt could see himself in it. His eyes would be lined with black liner only to whisk outward like the wings of a bird, he'd slather his skin in body shimmer to recreate the sweaty look of having just returned from working out on the fields, and his kilt would be pulled up a few more inches above his knee to reveal a pleasing amount of thigh to all those around. Come to think of it, this sounded like a great idea. Puckerman had his 'Sergeant Bulge' and Kurt had his 'Pharaoh Phuck'.

Plucking up both costume packets from off the wall, and briefly scanning the description as well as the models on the front, Kurt turned around to see Puckerman examining his current outfit, his hazels almost making a judgement based off the analysis he seemed to be making. "That baby boy romper doesn't look half bad, Hummel, although you may want to shake it up a little, show more... you know... baby flesh. Chicks aren't the only ones who can dress like sluts for Halloween."

Nodding in agreement as if his muscles had turned to rubber, Kurt froze. Puckerman had just suggested whoring up his outfit, his freaking baby outfit! Just the notion sounded wrong on so many levels, but then again, he had seen a Thomas and Friends costume for women earlier, in slut form, of course. Who made these clothes?! Kurt was further confounded when the jock smirked back at him, accompanied with a wink of all things. Great. Now he didn't know whether he preferred Puckerman acting suspiciously flirty or imagining Kurt wearing a bib whilst suggestively sucking on a lollipop, which even Kurt had to admit, would make a very tasty prop. This day really was just getting more bizarre with every look they were exchanging.

Grinning at the surprised and wide-eyed look Kurt was throwing him; Puck entered the changing room and began fitting on the trousers, black army boots, belt, cap and army dog tags around his muscled neck, adjusting everything to the last detail on an outfit which he deemed to be one badass bitch. Fuck yeah. He himself didn't know what the hell was going on between him and the Mayor of Gay Town, but it wasn't like he wasn't having a good time. Hummel was proving to be quite a laugh to be around and for a good hour, he believed that both of them had forgotten their differences, basking in the enjoyment of being total idiots and dressing up for fun. There was no harm in it _,_ and there was no agenda. It was all innocent.

Playing dress-up in outfits ranging from cop uniforms to Indian headdresses had been a hidden guilty pleasure of Puck's that he'd stashed away from everyone for years since he'd been a kid. Of course, his family knew about it, but no one else did. He knew the consequences of such an admission but, in any case, it wasn't anyone's business, but his. It was his pleasure, his business. It was something he liked to do on his own, pretending to be someone he wasn't. Yet, to come to think of it, was it all innocent? Had psychological danger been wearing a Viennese mask all this time? Had playing dress-up seeped from the confines of this costume store into his own life? Had he been wearing 'Jackass Jock' for more than a year now?

So many questions and they were all possible, disturbingly so. Yet this wasn't the point. Puck knew what it was as he shook the self-harming analytical thoughts from this head. The point was – Hummel was doing this with him. The boy was the first person ever to do this with... him. It was a big deal, letting someone else – let alone Hummel – into this undisclosed part of his life. It was a huge deal. Yet the giggle that had cascaded from the other boy's lips at the sight of his Afro wig had contained within it no mockery, no ridicule, just a gust of amusement at something that had genuinely made him happy. That right there had led to Puck's barriers lowering, eventually leading on to what they had been doing for the past few hours.

However, no matter how many times he played the fool with Hummel in all these fancy dress costumes, they'd never disguise or even mask what he and the boy had done in gym class. Puck had returned home that day, locked himself in his room and paced around it, his hands tugging at his Mohawk as fear had seeped into his bones. He'd managed to convince his friends that he'd messed Hummel around, creeped him out, yet whilst the jock's mouth had done the talking, his eyes had done the lying. His hazel eyes had been dead giveaways to anyone who'd bothered to delve deep enough. In the end, no one had, thank God, because what they would have discovered would have been a greater find than they could have handled.

Deep cogitation on Hummel had even cost the Titans the football game the other day when Puck had seen the boy's stumble, seen the blood, the tears, everything. He'd been concerned for Hummel, though his own helmet had masked it, and he'd tried to play on, but he couldn't. For him, the game might as well have finished as soon as the brunet had left the pitch, because Puck had played terribly that day. Dropping passes, often tackled and slow. He'd really been shit, and all due to pretty ass Hummel, as well as the ruminations of the compulsion that had made him lean towards a boy to ultimately crash kiss him, in what Puck thought had morphed itself from an overwrought moment to a tender one. It was riling up his mind into insanity.

God damn it! He was the one who was properly concerned; he was one who was totally freaking out. Not only because he'd wanted to kiss another fucking dude, but it made him question himself, and questioning oneself was reserved solely for insecure wackos with no friends. He wasn't that. He was fine. His experience with Hummel had just brought the experimental train several years earlier than expected, that's to say if he were going to actually experiment in college, or even go to college. God, so much brain activity. All this self-analysis, thinking if he really knew deep down what actually did lie underneath this invisible armor of self-proclaimed 'badassness' was messing him up. It was killing Sergeant Bulge's buzz.

"Okay, Hummel, I'm coming out. I mean I've... you know... finished getting dressed... damn," Puck muttered as he winced at his poor choice of words. If he hadn't been thinking about Hummel crawling into his mind and fiddling with it, turning any common sense and sound judgment right off to really leave a Neanderthal behind, then the line's other meaning wouldn't have even occurred to him, but since it had, it just seemed to make itself known like a giant foghorn in the air.

However, once Puck had finished cringing at his own double entendre, only then did he notice that no response had come from beyond the dressing room. Quickly pulling the red curtain to one side, Puck saw no one in sight. Hummel was nowhere to be seen. Looking hurriedly around on his tiptoes for the boy, the jock caught no sighting of him anywhere. He checked the neighboring dressing room, only to find it vacant. Checking the following dressing room, again no one. Puck continued checking, pulling curtains aside with countless zips of the rail and only relenting when he found one in use. It wasn't Hummel. Yet as he brought his eyes to where the boy had tried on the black lace bunny ears, Puck's heart leaped into his throat.

There, on the opposite wall was the baby boy romper outfit that Hummel had worn before the jock got changed and on it was a piece of paper, pinned to the face opening. Puck didn't know what the hell was going on. He'd only been in the cubicle for no longer than three minutes. Surely Hummel had had enough patience to wait. He'd done so all the other ten of fifteen times. After all, the boy had just given him advice on this very outfit. Why not stay for the look? Frowning, the jock made his way slowly towards the costume, noticing that Hummel's sketch pad had gone and was nowhere in sight. It acted as a proud confirmation to Puck right then and there that the boy had, indeed, ditched him in the store for one reason or another.

Normally, Puck would have been pissed, but seeing as they had been having such a great time, the anger that was meant to boil only seemed to simmer out in the form of worry. Had something happened to Hummel? Had someone taken him? The questions were roiling around in his head, yet what really took his breath away with a jet of surprising pain surging through his chest was what was written on the document. No. Hummel hadn't been taken. Nothing had happened to him. He'd left nothing behind except his battered feelings that had been clubbed by Puck's own hand, because there, against the skull white paper written in blood red ink were the words the jock thought never would affect him as badly as they did.

_'Die, Lowlife Scum, Die!'_

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

Throwing himself through his front door and slammed it shut, the noise echoing around the hallway, Kurt slid down the polished wood to land on the floor. He dropped his bag by his side with a thud and went to bring his knees up to his chest, burying his face in the warmth of his clothes as he sighed to himself. He was home, in the safety of his own house with no one within its sound walls, but him. Yet the structure seemed to crumble at what he'd done. Kurt couldn't have ripped off that embarrassing baby outfit, pelted out of the mall and driven home any faster than he had because, judging by the skid marks he had left in the parking lot, there was nothing faster in his mind at that moment than his own speed.

It was all unsuspecting, really. There he had been in a fancy dress store with his archenemy and head bully, putting on different clothes as if they were the best of friends. At first, it hadn't felt right. It hadn't felt right at all, simply because it really had been that unsettling, that unnerving. In fact, Kurt been counting down the seconds until Puckerman would smother him in a face mask, gag him with the elastic string of a headband or just hit him over the head with a blow up hammer. The jock would come so close up behind him when Kurt try on a new outfit, that Kurt swore he could've head Puckerman licking his lips, his tongue swiping his full pink lips as their eyes would trail up the costume to connect in the glass.

One may ask why Kurt hadn't just fled. That when Puckerman had been distracted with adjusting his afro, that Kurt could have grabbed his sketch pad off the floor near to the jock's feat and pelted from the store with no more than a light rustle. Yet, Kurt had an answer for this. The moment Puckerman had returned his delight in the form of smile and laughter, the threat that had been there before had vanished, along with intimation and danger, and so Kurt had risked it. He'd dared himself to project in front of Puckerman, a boy who had totally forgotten about the humiliating torment he'd suffered at the hands of the jock and along with that, was fully prepared to drop their turbulent history in favor of dress up, and all because of that smile.

However, despite the many, many, many times Kurt had ended up smiling so much he'd given himself his own facelift, there was no way he and Puckerman were ever going to be friends. It would never happen. Had the jock genuinely thought that having a few laughs together was really going to undo all the wrongful actions he had willingly and sadistically committed against an innocent new boy who was merely trying to survive high school without being given a patriotic wedgie or a tear-inducing swirlie? The way in which they had met, the way they encountered each other at school, their history was just that strong. How could a friendship even start construction when its foundation was nothing but a massive sinkhole?

Would Kurt have preferred it any other way? Yes. Would he have wished for things to be far more different than the harsh reality he was stuck in? Of course, and seeing how fun-filled the time with Puckerman had turned out to be, it was a shame that the jock chose to be jerk on the outside when who he hid underneath was so much better, so easy going with kind eyes, a boyish charm and a gentle tease. Why on earth Puckerman hid these features under a tanned skin of oppression, it baffled Kurt, but at this point, he was too exhausted and tired to start thinking of the many layers the jock insisted on wearing. They were too complicated to get into and the more he delved into it, the more his suddenly throbbing head hurt.

However, just because he'd not understood Puckerman, that had given Kurt no right to leave that note behind that note. No right at all. He had never in his life been that cruel to anyone else but, then again, no one had ever treated him like pure waste and garbage like that until now. He guessed being called 'butt pirate', 'butt rider' or 'butt rustler' repetitively on a daily basis really only brought out the worst in him, and what a worst it had turned out to be. He'd been purposely maleficent, malicious and mean and he had written that message as well deserved payback to a boy who most likely would have shrugged it off or placed his hands over his heart in mock sadness as if those words meant absolute squat to him.

Yet lifting his head from out of his knees and staring out ahead, Kurt knew in his heart that Puckerman had not brushed off this attack with as much ease, or even at all. One thing had to be clear, the boy he'd been with in the store was not the jock from McKinley, and as Kurt's eyes glistened in tears of guilt, he came to realize that he'd hurt the wrong boy. He hadn't hurt Puck, but Noah, a boy he'd liked very much, one who'd shown no harm and one who'd been ever so good to him. Noah had feelings, not an armor of skin like his jock counterpart, but skin that would have been pierced with Kurt's words straight into the heart, leaving silence to reign. A silence, that Kurt knew very well screamed in the wake of a newly cut wound...


	9. Sugar

Eyes opening like the curtain rising to the second half of a play and Kurt was now in the music room, sitting at the piano and stroking each black and white key, ghosting his pale fingers over the polished wood as he hummed his tune. The lyrics soon uttered themselves from his lips whilst his eyes trailed fleetingly to see the piano's music stand empty with no score leaning against it. He was set to perform a solo in the school assembly in a couple of minutes and not just in front of students and faculty, but in front of the McKinley school inspector, who was performing his yearly rounds in the wake of the nerves of the school principle, Mr. Figgins, and also to the anger of his fellow Glee club member, Rachel, as she stormed about the room.

The girl was furious. When it had been announced in Glee club a few days ago that Kurt had been chosen to sing to the school's special guest, Mr. Schuester as well as everybody else had not heard the end of it. Kurt had believed there to be some kind of mix up, that he was a disaster waiting to happen if a microphone were to find itself anywhere near his mouth, yet in some ways, he was very much flattered that he'd been chosen. It was as if people seemed to have a strange amount of faith in him. The Cheerios and now this. They kept on giving him opportunities to redeem himself with more and more chances at performing and if he wasn't going to take it now, how stupid was he really going to allow himself to be?

"I cannot believe this," began Rachel, raising her voice as well as the volume of her stomps as she turned her back to Kurt before placing her hands on her hips, digging her fingers painfully into her jumper that looked as if it'd come from an Animal Crossing convention. "I should be performing in assembly, not you Kurt. I mean, I've been here since freshman year, whilst you've only been here for like, I don't know, four or five weeks? It's so unfair to those who've been here longer, like me!"

"Rachel, do you mind," sighed Kurt, pulling the cover over the piano keys with a little more force than necessary before leaning his elbows on its surface and burying his head in his hands. The reply was enough to whip Rachel around but the sarcasm along with his exasperated attitude wasn't enough to dull her anger down. "I'm trying to recite my lyrics here and I can't have you like this right now. Besides, you should be heading off to assembly with all the others. It starts soon."

"I'm not like those 'others', Kurt! I'm Rachel Berry!"

"Yes, you are definitely queen of everything, now calm your royal loins down, your majesty."

"This isn't funny, Kurt. I can't believe Mr. Shue would do this to me."

"Believe it, Rach. You were there when he announced I'd be singing."

"If you think about it, Mr. Schue's just being very cruel to you, Kurt. Remember how you freaked out at the auditions when he mentioned an assembly performance? He's asked you to do it again, how cruel is he being to you?" Asked Rachel. "Kurt, its okay not to be comfortable with singing in front of that many people. I've been performing a lot longer than you have so I know I can take it, whilst with you, no offense, but every show you've taken part in, from Glee to the Cheerios, has failed."

"Firstly, putting no offense in front of an insult, doesn't prevent it from bring offensive. It just makes it more irritating," huffed Kurt, lifting his head out of his hands and fixing the brunette with a withering glare as she came to stand at the piano. "Secondly, what happened during the 'Can't Speak French' number you know very well wasn't my fault, and what happened during the 'Hot Summer' routine with the Cheerios wasn't by any means my fault either, Rachel, so just back off, alright."

Relenting slightly, Rachel lowered her gaze to her reflection in the wood, her temper calming as she realized she'd let out an accusation that was very unfair to Kurt, because it wasn't true. Kurt hadn't been at fault on either one of those performances and she took it back immediately. "Rachel, you should be happy that I'm being recognized for my talent in the music department, not tearing me down with past failures. Geez, you're like some chronically depressed budgerigar. Lighten up."

"Yes, Kurt, but you're not just going to be performing in front of the school, but the school inspector as well. I'm just really here to warn you about the pressure, to let you know that you don't have to do it if you don't want to," replied Rachel, coming to stand behind Kurt as she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. However, it only caused the boy to roll his eyes in annoyance. "Don't let Mr. Schuester bully you into singing if you really don't think you're up for it."

"Rachel, I'm not being bullied into anything. I know you're trying to come off as Mother Theresa in all this but your nun veil cover has been blown. You're just trying to replace me with yourself. The jig is up," answered Kurt, shrugging off Rachel's hand as he raised himself from his perch on the piano stool and headed towards the door. "Besides, it's like you said, you've been performing for most of your life. I'm merely here making up for all those chances I never had."

"Really, Kurt, because it sounds to me as if you're just doing this out of spite in light of what I've said. Please, can't I just sing this one? Please, I'll pay you. How about a hundred dollars?" Begged Rachel, struggling to keep up with Kurt's longer strides as he made his way towards the auditorium. "I'll let you have the lead in the next Glee number we do. Wouldn't you want that? To be the Primo Gentiluomo? To sing It would be so much more worth your time than this performance now."

"Don't start thinking, Rachel, that me singing now won't hold any value for me and is at all inconsequential," retaliated Kurt, whipping around to face her by the backstage entrance to the gym. "We're all equal here, and I know being overlooked is an unnatural occurrence for you when it comes to show choir but when you've led the life I've led, you take what you believe will do you good and you don't let anyone steal it from you. Now go shave your feet or suck a lawn or something."

"Hey! Just because those jerks call me 'hobbit' doesn't mean I have the feet of one."

"Oh please Rachel, have you them? It's like a forest down there."

"What?! No, it's not!"

"Just kidding... although you may want to check that out. You may have hirsutism."

"Shut up, and just go sing... I mean, don't go sing! I'll let you make you fun of me as much as you like, just don't go sing," begged Rachel, grabbing onto Kurt's arm as he stopped to contemplate her proposal. Making fun of the Rachel and her self-righteousness for the rest of high school did sound tempting. Even though they were friends at heart, he'd be given two years of unprecedented access to mocking her wardrobe to her 'man hands', which come to think of it, might be hairy too.

However, he knew that if he gave into Rachel's demand, the school would now be subjected to a cover of the latest Taylor Swift song, a singer who only gave the teen girls of America two choices: to have sex and wind up broken and sad and feeling as if they've lost 'everything you had,' or wait until your untouched vagina accumulated enough charge to make you rich and famous. He just couldn't let that happen. "Sorry Rachel, as tempting as that sounds, I'm going to have to say-"

"Kurt, there you are. You're on in thirty-seconds so get yourself quickly on the stage now," announced Mr. Schuester, Kurt turning around to see the teacher coming towards them from the gym and pointing to the exact spot behind the blue curtain. Giving Rachel a sympathetic yet triumphant look before following the man's directions towards the microphone stand that had been propped up especially for him, Kurt straightened up his posture and entered, his being fully trained and focused.

"Good luck, Kurt! Remember to smile and give it your all! You're going to be great!" Smiled Mr. Schuester, attempting to muffle Rachel's harsh whispers with his hand clamping itself to her mouth as he gave a thumbs up to Kurt with the other. Nodding back at the teacher in thanks as the man disappeared with a less than cooperate Rachel Berry, Kurt came to stand in his position at the detachable microphone before the curtains rose and a spotlight descended on his face.

Kurt's breath hitched as applause rang through the sports hall only to disappear into a painful silence, one that stretched for too long. He was set to sing before the instrumental came in but he began to believe it wouldn't, as if his voice would be left stranded. As though that wasn't enough, could make out every face in the room, faces that just gave out cold expressions; heartless gazes that made Kurt's stomach squirm in discomfort. The light shining on him was almost blinding and as he stood there in silence, he adjusted the microphone. It squeaked ever so slightly, acting to Kurt as some sort of push, and it seemed to work. Opening his mouth, Kurt sang and like a friend's hand on his shoulder, the instrumental played right behind him.

_I shot him down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down_ _  
__I shot him down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down_ _  
__I shot him down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down_ _  
__I shot him down, down, down, down, down, down, down, down..._

There Kurt was on his own, singing his heart out to the school. He wanted this performance to be the one people would remember him by and not all the others. Changing their minds would prove to be a challenge, but with songs that were not always about sex, he was far freer to express himself the way he was most comfortable with. Kurt wanted to let out every shred of regret over the way he'd treated a certain boy in the bleachers, regardless of how he had treated him, because he was better than revenge. He was made of stronger stuff and although it could be sweet with a temporary satisfaction that was never enough but always something you'd return to, it was nothing but sugar-coated guilt ready to burst out within him.

Pressing himself closer to the stand, Kurt's lips almost brushed against the microphone, the tangy taste of metal floating like notes of a scent onto his taste buds. He introduced the first verse with this level of intimacy, because he was wracked with contrition and as a result, he wanted to express it all through the music. The main piece of advice Mr. Schuester had given him was that he was to smile more or to pull a positive expression of any kind that would show off a set of teeth to brilliant not to show off in the limelight, yet Kurt just couldn't do it. He wasn't here to fake emotions. It was almost like he was in pain to be seen, but that was only part of the illusion of the disheartened boy that every single eye in the hall was witnessing.

_I pulled the trigger on a boy, kept messing me around_ _  
__got my finger on the gun, bang, bang I shot him down_ _  
__I pulled the trigger on a boy, kept messing me around_ _  
__got my finger on the gun, bang, bang I shot him down..._

When the end of the first verse came to pass and the start of the chorus began, Kurt threw his lungs into the loudest gear he could manage and belted out his bare emotions for all to hear. He plucked the microphone from its stand, stepped off the stage and started walking into the center of the hall where the instrumental continued to back up his vocals with a head bobbing beat, neat sythns and an overall good foundation that made it that much easier to count himself into his next set of lyrics. The spotlight followed him like a hawk and as Kurt set his troubles free, blood red petals were released from the vaults in the ceiling, their fluttering forms cascading down the air lightly and creating a pool of red flowers around his feet.

It was all so beautiful, a real sight to behold. He hadn't at first wanted anything but himself onstage with all the focus on his voice until Mr. Schuester, or more accurately Ms. Pillsbury, had suggested such ornamentation, after Kurt had given them both a private rendition before the assembly yesterday. A rendition that had gone on for thirty-seven run throughs before Kurt was satisfied he couldn't do better. A number of attempts seemed to Mr. Schuester and the red headed school councilor nearly identical with no hint of a change, not even a trace, yet to Kurt there were small distinctions and these small distinctions were crucial to him as if the point of singing this song depended on it, the message, the oh so crucial message.

_I think about it very day, I shouldn't have hurt you that way_ _  
__But it's a little late to say that I can erase your heartache_ _  
__Thinking about it, thinking about it, thinking about it, Oooh baby_ _  
__Thinking about it, thinking about it, thinking about it, Oooh..._

Of course, Kurt hadn't told Rachel any of this, what had happened behind the scenes. She would have used it as more deadly ammo to use against him whilst a smug smile would have itched itself across her proud face, for the rehearsal had been exhausting. Kurt had been himself exhausted but satisfied and was seen to smile. Cautiously Mr. Schuester had praised him. The music teacher had always been under the impression that Kurt wanted to impress the school, show off to the inspector, all this time he'd thought it was that, but now he had begun to think otherwise. He'd cautiously taken Kurt's hands in his and thanked him as often as he could and the boy had responded with smiles and giggles until he'd drawn back and stiffened.

Stage fright. He had been so cooped up in perfecting this whole performance that he'd never once thought about Puckerman's reaction, the boy he had wronged. It could have been bad of Kurt to bring what had happened to them to such attention, dangerous even. No one would know, yet ears would be pricked and as sharp as any dagger. No one knew what had happened between Kurt Hummel and Noah Puckerman, but this pretty charade like performance was like sweetener to a sour note like the petals. It was such a lovely idea that Kurt had agreed, which only brought him back to the present as several of the petals from above landed in his hair and his shoulders, although he made no attempt to remove them. No attempt.

_I pulled the trigger on a boy, kept messing me around_ _  
__got my finger on the gun, bang, bang I shot him down_ _  
__I pulled the trigger on a boy, kept messing me around_ _  
__got my finger on the gun, bang, bang I shot him down_

The petals eventually ceased to fall from on high when the music neared the end and as Kurt finished singing, he proceeded to fall to the floor, the spotlight softening on him as if he'd been shot himself whilst the roses all around acted as his blood, sweet scented blood that meant not to drown him, but rather float him on the cold hard ground that would otherwise have been the ocean's bed. Closing his eyes as the remaining notes of the instrumental echoed around the gym before finally disappearing, it left the hall in pure silence, the light dimming as it all came to an end. Cut. Kurt had shot him down. The lyrics he had uttered escaped his mind but never his mouth. He'd pulled the trigger on Puckerman, and he'd shot him down.

For a moment Kurt was oblivious to the fact that he was in a large room, forgetting about everything around him until the bleachers roared to life, the applause deafening as Kurt's eyes flew open as if the loudest bedside alarm were ringing all around, breaking his eardrums but catching his attention. He raised his head to see everyone clapping and nodding their heads in approval. He looked wildly around from his own bed of roses to catch Mercedes, Tina, Artie and a reluctant Rachel, cheering him on as he got up from the floor and bowed to the school. There he flashed them a small grin before making his way back towards the stage and offering everyone a smile of thanks as he took in the positive response he was receiving.

Throughout all this smile throwing that in the end came across as a little tedious, Principal Figgins along with the inspector came walking briskly towards him with their faces broken out into massive grins of their own. As soon as they reached the pale boy with flustered cheeks the shade of the very petals sleeping off the floor and a chest that would never halt to stop breath as if he'd just run a marathon, they both went to shake Kurt's hand, where Kurt returned the gesture politely with a smile. Once again observing the ovation, he could see everyone was at least grinning from it – all but one face amongst the crowd that was doing anything but smiling, a deep scowl etched there, causing Kurt's own grin to falter and fade.

Puckerman was not clapping; he was not cheering and he definitely was not nodding in support. He was eying Kurt very coldly; a cold that seemed to shoot freeze rays whilst at the same time, seemed to shine with red curdling emotion as he repeatedly, from the looks of it, clenched and unclenched his fists, his crimson tinged skin that had out flushed his beige undertones indicating that he had been at it for quite some time. The sight unnerved Kurt greatly, suddenly realizing that he really had it coming. He had angered Noah Puckerman not only through a note but also through song, bringing up what had happened between them to everyone's attention, and now he was going to get what was coming to him: a rearranged face.

A part of him hoped that he was going to escape unscathed and that the mohawked boy would accept the fact he had deserved what he had been insulted with, considering his own status as a bully, but obviously Puckerman did not play fair, he didn't go by the rules and he didn't see Kurt as an exception. The jock was going to prove to him that the lower orders of the school couldn't get away with revenge, no matter how much oppression had been forced on them and if they were Kurt, no matter how much guilt was eating their insides out like a flesh-eating virus. They couldn't get away with it and Kurt's throne was already toppling, his crown rolling to halt at the jock's feet as his life was severed with the fall of the axe.

"That was a very passionate performance you gave there, Mr. Hummel," congratulated the inspector as Kurt tore his eyes away from Puckerman to look upon the middle-aged man eying him with an impressed gaze. However, as he made to thank the inspector for his kind words, to look him in the eye and reply honestly, all Kurt could see was his own face reflected in the glasses the man was wearing, and how fake the smile he was sporting was, as fake as any smile moulded on a Ken doll.

Why couldn't his smile reach his eyes just, at least in the wake of such a compliment. However, the complement of vocal passion seemed to dehydrate before breaking up into weak dust in the air. Great, now the luxury of the rare compliment had been taken away from him. As if he'd not lost enough, as he continued to listen to the inspector. "I hope it's not too invasive to ask, and you don't have to answer if it is, but what was your influence? What made you choose that song?"

"I'll admit a recent incident lead me down the road I went, both in terms of song choice and vocal performance," replied Kurt rather formally, placing his hands in front of him as he tried to show off the best of his manners in light of what he felt at that moment. Giving the inspector his undivided attention was to make him feel like he was the most important person in the room, which he was. "I find performing an effective outlet to express issues that sometimes remain trapped within ourselves."

"I quite agree. I have a niece who'll only sing her troubles to her parents, not speak to them. See, she believes that it's a form of communication that ought to be adopted, it's that affective," chuckled the inspector, turning around to see Mr. Figgins joining the laughter as Kurt stood before them awkwardly smiling. "You'll have no idea how many secrets have come spilling out of that mouth of hers, from bad report card revelations to crush confessions, the whole lot, all in melody form of course."

"Well anyway, I'm glad you liked the performance. I'm actually new at McKinley. I've only been here since the start of September but I have to say that the amount of support I've gotten from my teachers has surprised me. I'm not exactly the best, yet they have the greatest of faith in me," smiled Kurt as he noticed out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Figgins nodding his head at every word that came streaming out of his mouth, and it was easy because it was true. No lying involved.

"And are you enjoying your time at McKinley?" Asked the inspector as Kurt nodded in affirmation, looking down at the ground straight after as if he didn't want the man to see the truth inscribed in his irises. Lying was involved now. No mention of bullying could be mentioned and no response other than a nod could be given as the blue curtains dropped behind them, the stampede of students' footsteps sounding the return to their classes as they thundered beyond the blue barrier.

Walking towards the exit, Kurt escorted the inspector through the backstage door, while at the same time removing the numerous petals from his clothes that otherwise rained down as he moved. "I thought I was being a little risky with my song choice seeing as the Glee club here at McKinley does usually stick to upbeat and a rather more positive library of material. It's seen as more favorable at competitions, which we're trying to compete in as soon as we get more members."  
  
"Well, what I have to say, Mr. Hummel, is that you really have talent that you should be very much aware of. I'm sure that that club of yours will many have names lining that signup sheet in a matter of minutes," replied Principal Figgins said as Kurt scoffed internally, bringing them all to come to a halt in the corridor as the hustle and bustle of pupils sounded right behind them. "I'm going to talk to Mr. Schuester about showcasing you more in the club. Anything to muffle that vulgar Berry girl."

Kurt ought to have been happy that he was starting to gather positive attention for a change. It was a welcoming feeling that people like Rachel knew how to feed off with glutton like greed, but just the thought of singing to the school again, to see Puckerman's emotionally marred face once more, was a prospect he believed to be somewhat tainted. Kurt was going to be haunted by that face every time he'd be up to perform again on the stage, or maybe on any stage. It would be the only face to stand out, even if it wasn't there and as he was dismissed to attend his history period, the corridors now devoid of students as he journeyed to his locker, Kurt knew he needed to sort this out. His business with Puckerman was not over.

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

The school day had ended by the time Kurt was in his Home Economics club, a club that he'd recently joined not too long ago after finding a significant amount of enjoyment with both Glee and the Cheerios. Due to this, the urge to join another fixture had won him over when he'd one day ventured passed the signup sheet. It had resulted in him now participating more in school life, as well as enjoying the feeling of now being able to boil more than water when it came to the kitchen, and although he'd of course wondered if he'd have the time for it what with school work, singing and cheerleading wearing down his wrist, vocal chords and body, he'd gone with the idyllic picture of cooking himself a treat after a grueling school day.

In terms of the actual Home Economics club itself, not that many students went for it as an after school activity, except for freshmen girls who'd want to do nothing more than cake decorate every week for an hour. They wouldn't want to bake the cake or do anything that had measuring and mixing involved, as if they were ladies of the French court where such an act was improper for aristocrats of their rank, and that such a 'messy' activity of handling the flour, beating the eggs and pouring in the milk should be best reserved for the other members of the club, for the mere 'peasants' who'd all fix them with annoyance, before flipping them off their behind their backs and appropriately nicknaming them the 'bourgeoisie bitches.'

Apart from this minor hindrance, Kurt thoroughly enjoyed the club. It was the only one he was in that didn't have him performing or embarrassing himself in some way, that instead engaged his artistic mind, that had him using his hands in a creative way instead of waving them about in a jazz like fashion in Glee or wagging them teasingly in nearly every Cheerio routine that Sylvester would choreograph, a move that puzzled Kurt since most of the Cheerios' outfits had been warmed up to such a salacious and might he add slutty appearance that nothing was possibly left for the mind to imagine. Here in Home Economics, he had none of that and he was free to think of buns in the oven without it having to do with teen pregnancy.

Bringing himself out from his thoughts, Kurt listened as their teacher, Ms. Jenn, instructed them to remove their books and folders from their desks once they had copied all notes down from the board and to fetch their aprons by the door to the classroom. There were strict instructions laid down that there was to be no running, pushing and shoving in the kitchen and that they get things done quickly and efficiently. This shouldn't have been stressed as everyone had enough common sense not to mess around in a kitchen, but you would be wrong when you had the freshman girls fighting over the small-sized aprons, their obsession with being thin leading them to tie them around themselves so tight that they could hardly breathe.

For today's session, they were set to bake a simple batch of chocolate cupcakes and as Kurt did as he was told, putting his bag by the side of the room to go and tie on one of the medium-sized aprons around him, he returned to his desk and to a partner best not to have. That's right. He'd been partnered with the sophomore equivalent of the bourgeoisie bitches, Sugar Motta. Sugar, if anything, was not only attention seeking but also bossy, demanding and at the same time annoyingly sweet. It was a very bothersome combination to have and somehow Kurt knew that their cupcakes would either resemble gelatinous messes with the shape of gerbil bedding and tramp sick or burnt baked goods that would make nice rocks for garden décor.

"Okay, Sugar I need you to go and collect the ingredients as they are listed in the recipe – like flour, cocoa powder, sugar, baking powder, salt and butter," instructed Kurt as he pulled out the school's cooking books, scanned the contents page and flicked to the chocolate cupcake recipe. His mouth, as he'd predicted, began to salivate as he took in the well-photographed cupcake beauty on the page but was hastily stopped from drooling as he brought himself out from his cocoa craving.

Meanwhile, Sugar had just finished tying her apron around her waist and was now looking back at Kurt blankly. It was obvious from her confused expression that she had no idea where to get the ingredients from and he had to sigh at his own misfortune for being stuck with a girl who would much rather use her iPhone to tweet about cooking instead of actually doing it. Huffing, Kurt continued. "Sugar, they're over there by that cupboard and in the fridge. See where everyone is going?"

"Why can't you go do it?" Asked Sugar, not so much whining as but asking innocently, her eyes wide as if Kurt were her father. Please! He'd invented that! "You obviously know where everything is and you don't want me screaming in agony from being scalded by third degree burns do you? Must I remind you I feed my skin with $400 worth of Royal Jelly moisturizer every day and I don't want those precious juices that have been hand squished out of a Gucci bee's backside to go to waste."

"Really, because I heard you use that stuff as honey to spread on your toast in the morning," countered Kurt, watching as Sugar shrugged before pushing him aside to look at the recipe, yet as Kurt rolled his eyes and made his way to collect the ingredients, he whipped around just as Sugar was in the process of pulling out a compact to scan her reflection. Walking over to her, Kurt pulled it out of her hand, only for her to pull out a second compact from her pockets. "Oh my God, how many-"

"As many as I need, Kurt. You can never be short on compacts. They'll never lie to you, a girl's most honest friend," replied Sugar almost dreamily as she examined her face thoroughly, sometimes brushing invisible hairs from it before closing it and snatching back her first compact from Kurt's hand, noticing as she did, the look on his face. "What? If I didn't have this then I'd constantly be excusing myself to go to the ladies room, and that wouldn't do anything for my heels now would it?"

"How about this, don't wear heels. Ever thought of that? I doubt Giuseppe Zanotti or Jimmy Choo or whatever gay man you're wearing on your feet designed their shoes specifically for those mixing batter," retorted Kurt. "Put your compact away and fetch the utensils we'll need while I do the task your skin can't do simply because you've lathered it in flying insect secretion. You can't get away with doing nothing, Marie Antoinette. By the end, we'll be eating cake and you won't be."

Whipping around in the wake of Sugar's lip glossed gape of a mouth, Kurt went about to collect the ingredients himself. He knew he was being a little short-tempered with the girl and he was usually a lot more patient with people who didn't push his buttons, but today had been too eventful for his own liking. He didn't even think he was safe from himself in a place where knives were most abundant. To the jocks, this room would act like the kitchen's equivalent of an armory. Every sharp utensil in the cooking world with so many ways to wield them as if they were ninja weapons. It truly was ammo they were not aware of, or did, because maybe even they knew where the limit was, though Kurt doubted that bar was set very low.

Once he had grabbed hold of their chosen ingredients, Kurt rose to his feet and was just about to start making his way back to his counter when a scream cut through the room. He quickly ran towards his counter, dumped everything he had been carrying and looked around for whoever had screamed, yet when his eyes landed on who it was, he buried his head in his hands. Sugar was over by the utensil rack, nursing what seemed to be a gushing cut on her palm, the wound bleeding profusely. She had evidently cut herself with one of the sharp cooking knives from not being careful enough and had Mrs. Jenn by her side, examining it. See, this is what happened when you softened your hands to actual jelly. Silly girl.

Slowly making his way towards them both, Kurt's eyes stayed trained on Sugar's cut. It was really deep. Whatever had she been doing by the knives, he didn't know. Probably inspecting herself in their reflection was his first guess and even though he'd stormed away in fear that he might hit her over the way with her compact, she'd gone and hurt herself anyway. Vanity had bitch slapped her for not leaving it alone. As Mrs. Jenn glanced at him approaching, she ordered him to escort Sugar to the nurse's office immediately for a bandage. Nodding his head, Kurt lead his now weeping partner from the room and out into the corridor, the trek up to the office already causing him to miss the smell of delicious butter cream frosting.

However, as both of them journeyed up the school, Kurt's hand which had come to assure Sugar around the shoulders, tightened ever so slightly. He didn't like being in the corridors because he no longer felt safe in them. Ever since his performance this morning he had stayed well clear of Puckerman, often poking his head from around the corner just so he could be sure he wouldn't run into him. However, he wasn't the only one employing such evasive behavior. Lower ranking students were making sure not to cross the jock's path either because according to reports, including accounts of mental denting from all too violent lockers shoves, Puckerman was in one of his foulest of moods to date.

Kurt had managed to successfully avoid the mohawked boy, until the bell for lunch had sounded through the school. Kurt had had first thoughts of not eating at all, that he'd make up for it at dinner that evening, but then his friends would start asking questions and he hadn't wanted to be mouthing off excuses. So he'd eaten a poor meal in an even poorer state of mind, with conversation that engaged everyone at the table but him. All he'd done was fiddle with his food whilst the hazel eyes from a certain jock had burned into him from afar and when he'd made to dispose of his tray, choosing the route farthest away from Puckerman, the jock had still managed to sneer down Kurt's neck by the door, like a warning before the kill later on.

Now, as Kurt reached the nurse's office with Sugar still whimpering like a scolded child, he was just about to escort her in when he overheard voices coming from nearby. Even though they were secretive in speech and as low as a whisper, he could still make out their voices as belonging to both Puckerman and Santana, the children of Amosdeus. Kurt knew he had to send Sugar into the nurse's office but if he did, he might miss something important and of value, so bringing a finger to his lips to indicate silence to the wounded girl, he crept as lightly as he could and leaned against the wall around the corner. The conversation the couple were having was rather frantic, heating up into an argument meant to blow at any minute.

"What the hell is with you, Puckerman? You've been moody all day, you're not sexting me as you do, you didn't even say that much the last couple of times we had phone sex. What's wrong?" Inquired Santana, her brown eyes scouring the length of Puck's face that in turn couldn't have pulled off a more uninterested expression as if the Latina's face no longer gave him the thrill it once had, as if it no longer held within it that exotic spark of Puerto Rico that had him pleasing the urge.

Shifting his back against the locker he'd been ambushed against, Puck continued to evade Santana's impatient gaze as well as the question. She had this nagging feeling within her that his attention was slipping and with that came the fear that she wasn't the most important thing in his life. She wasn't going to be second to whatever had taken up first place if she had anything to say about it. "Come on Puck, tell me. If you do, I might just blow you here against the locker. No one will se-"

"No."

"What? Why no-"

"I said no, Lopez."

"You're saying no to a blow job? Okay, something is wrong with you."

"Nothing is wrong with me. Just because I say no oral doesn't mean I'm acting weird. You've got to stop using sex as some kind of relationship thermometer in... whatever this thing is between us," retaliated Puck, dismissing Santana's accusation as his eyes met hers. Truth was, Santana may have classed herself as his 'girlfriend' and he her 'boyfriend', but this was no relationship. All they did was fuck each other. Dates were for fucking and outings were for fucking. It was just sex. Only sex.

This proved to be the problem. Santana seemed content with being his fuck buddy under a faux 'girlfriend' badge. She'd been the one to set the rules for no romance, claiming it to be only for the 'weak heart hearted'. She'd made it very clear that it be kept strictly sexual, to reaffirm their sexual appeal, and only until now, these terms and conditions had not caused any issues. Yet, lately Santana's sexual appetite seemed to have turned bloodthirsty. Whenever she would get the chance, she would saunter up to Puck and attempt to kiss and feel him up at every possible turn, only to be pushed away. It definitely wasn't like her, because even she retained some shred of pubic decency, and it definitely wasn't like Puck for rejecting.

For someone as sexually various as Santana, Puck would have asked himself a few days ago why he was being such a pussy and that he should be happy that a hot piece of ass was frequently throwing herself at him, no matter what the time or place for that was, but now, now he didn't feel the need for it as he spoke. "Maybe you're the one who needs to take a chill pill, Santana. You're freaking horny all the goddamn time and while I'm all for sex, you just need to calm the fuck down."

"Don't speak to me like I'm not worth anything to you, Puckerman. I'll have you know that if you no longer want to get with this, there are plenty of other guys in this school who would love to do the honors," snapped the Latina, slithering her hands like snakes down her breasts to eventually rest on her ass. Following the action with his eyes, Puck merely shrugged. Fine, if guys wanted Santana, they could have her. He just hoped they'd be able to keep up with her Succubus like hunger.

"Listen Puck, if you don't begin to realize what you stand to lose here, then you are not worth my time," replied Santana, crossing her hands across her chest and popping out her hip as the conversation neared its end. For Puck, this couldn't have come any quicker and so he waited impatiently for her to finish spouting words that weren't worth his time either. "Your eyes belong on my body and no one else's. You shouldn't have to think about anybody else, least of all Hummel."

"What?"

"Oh like you don't know what I'm talking about."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Stopping in the middle of a game to stare at some gay kid. Yeah, I think there is Puckerman."

"So what if I looked at him? He had blood all over his face and all because you hit him with your arm. I saw you do it," retaliated Puck, Santana's eyes widening as she hissed for him to 'shut the fuck up'. Yes, it had been Santana who'd caused Kurt's tumble, but whether it had been an accident or on purpose was yet to be determined. Puck, however, didn't need to think. He knew the girl had hurt Kurt purposefully and it was then that deep inside, he felt anger for Santana rising.

This odd feeling was giving him enough incentive to do something he should have done a long time before now. Having Santana around was not doing him any good. "How about this Lopez; I'm ending it. You're way too uptight and high maintenance for me. It's as if your pussy is on a major leakage like some rampaging sprinkler. I think the Puckster needs to roam free, scope out some new territory, because honestly you're giving me insight into marriage and I don't like it."

"What?! How can you... Puckerman get your ass back here!" Shouted Santana, her arms unwinding so that her hands clenched by her sides, hands that soon launched themselves forward to grab a fist full of Puck's Letterman jacket before wrenching him forward. "You're not walking away from me like that. You're obviously not thinking straight, so I'm going to let you off with a warning, but if you do this to me again, I will go around saying who you really were eying up at the game."

"If you do, I'll go to Sylvester and let her in on what you did to Hummel. You really want to pull at that thread?" Smirked Puck, watching as her fists tightened on his jacket before letting him go. Blackmail wasn't going to work if they both had info on the other and so Santana could only watch as Puck smoothed out the creases around his collar before sauntering away, not even looking back to what face she was pulling or how close she was to tearing her hair out. He was free from McKinley's bitch.

However, after talk of Hummel, Puck's strides shortened. His mind was riling in memory of the boy he'd spent an enjoyable Saturday afternoon with, closely followed by the memory of a note that reminded him of the insults his mother would throw his father when Puck was little, the one insult Puck feared he himself would be thrown. Now memories of this morning in the form of a melody sung by said by boy came to mind, a song with homoerotic undertones with an engaging bass to support lyrics that had been obviously directed to what had happened between him and Hummel in the store. Puck hadn't liked it being brought to light, and had let Kurt know through a glare, but he'd relented slightly, for the boy had sung very well.

Meanwhile, as Puck strode in amongst his thoughts, Kurt pulled his face away from the corner with a slight yelp before quickly dashing towards the nurse's office, Sugar in tow, the idea of being caught eavesdropping on his two worst enemies in the school sending a bone-rattling chill to run down his spine as he knew very well he wouldn't be the only one needing to see the nurse if he was caught. Once they arrived, he deposited Sugar within the nurse's care and made sure she was in the right hands before he left. He didn't want the girl to be alone in the room because if she couldn't look out for herself in a kitchen, she most certainly would not be able to keep herself away from being harmed in a nurse's office.

This was the second time Kurt had been in here. The office itself was painted utterly white with glass cabinets fully stocked with appropriate medication, a sink, counters lined with plasters, bandages and other first aid material, as well as two beds that stood parallel each other across the room. To Kurt, he felt safe here, though the injuries and attacks that he had been subjected to had never been grave enough for him to merit a trip here, even if it would have been wise for him to have done. A restroom cubicle had more than sufficed in most cases, yet for the last football game, he couldn't have gotten away with treating his wounds by a toilet sink. He'd needed urgent attention, and only the skilled hand from the nurse had helped.

Now closing the office door behind him, Kurt went to lean against the wall beside it. He'd been supposed to wait for Sugar before escorting her back to their class, but as it looked like the deep cut in her hand was more serious than they'd thought, he'd been allowed to leave by the nurse's orders. Only now, his thoughts went straight to Puckerman and the argument he had had with Santana. Obviously the Latina suspected something was going on, but it didn't mean she knew for sure and what the details consisted of. In fact, now that she and Puckerman were no longer together, it was of no use to her anymore, but then, considering her nature, she was bound to go digging around. A prospect Kurt wasn't looking forward to.

Not wanting to miss anymore cooking time considering everyone else's cupcakes were most likely baking and the icing being prepared, Kurt launched himself off the wall and went to make his way back to his missed period. He would have got there sooner as well if he hadn't walked straight into a broad chest that had suddenly turned around the corner, making him jump in shock, his eyes widening as he took in Puckerman's appearance. Stumbling backwards from the small crash, Kurt lost his footing, sending him towards the floor but before he could reach the ground, the jock quickly swooped down, wrapped his hands around his waist and with his free hand, took hold of Kurt's fingers to stop him from going down any further.

It was a close call if there ever was one. If Puckerman's instincts hadn't kicked in when they had, Kurt was sure he'd have hit his head rather hard on impact. Luckily, he'd been saved, but his sense of comfort unfortunately had not been shown such kindness. The situation for Kurt was immensely awkward. He was being held in a dip that only seemed to resemble the move in ballroom dancing and with his Mohawk bully looking down at him with slightly parted lips, his chest panting from the sudden near fall and rush of power-pumping adrenaline, Kurt gazed anywhere but at Puckerman's face. For it was way too soon to even look in those eyes, eyes that seemed to be constantly at war with his, a war that raged with no end.

However, despite Kurt refusing to look with fear that he would receive a cold glare in return, he did anyway. As he raised his gaze from Puckerman's chest to the face that was looming over him, he frowned. Puckerman was looking so fixedly back at him, so attentively, so absorbedly as if he was trying to communicate a feeling to him through sight. An emotion-resembling dare he think it, longing. What the hell? There was nothing too long for. How could one change one's eyes from fury-infused to fireside warmth in the space of several hours, to jump from one polar opposite of the emotional spectrum to the other, especially after how Kurt had treated a boy with as much emotional tolerance and patience as a bloodthirsty gladiator?

Blinking at how intently he was being stared at, hazel eyes almost dripping into the oceanic lagoons that rippled underneath, Kurt thought it high time to properly take in the face so interested in his own, for it hadn't been until now that he had actually stopped to look at the jock since in every other circumstance, Kurt's eyes had been hot with rage simply because the guy was trouble, but now he was allowed to look with nothing holding him back. No veil of anger obscured his vision now, nothing, and as a result, he could begin to understand why people would find Puckerman attractive. His look was very hegemonic, very manly. Something about it seemed to ooze positive drive, ambition, self-reliance and heterosexuality.

Puckerman's skin was golden brown (acquired either genetically or from when he was cleaning pools in sunny Cougar Town), magnetic hazel eyes, a short button nose, full lips, chiseled cheekbones and a defined jaw. Overall, Puckerman's face was very masculine and although Kurt should have been attracted, he wasn't. He didn't feel anything. It was as if the boy's face were too conventional, too generic. There was no stand out feature that helped his eyes stay trained, no superior trait that engaged his interest and no attribute or element that in the end encouraged him to nearly yawn in monotony, as a well as shiver internally from the chill of oppression, exploitation, power and social control that emanated from the boy.

Maybe Kurt was just one of the few mortals that hadn't fallen under Puckerman's like Adonis spell. He wondered, if the jock and he had been introduced any other way, maybe he would have found the boy somewhat interesting. Or maybe he was just not into douche bag jocks. Or just douche bags in general. As Kurt lost himself in the complexity of his own thoughts, he was utterly unaware of Puckerman above him practically losing himself with besotted infatuation over his mouth and it wasn't until Kurt finally realized that Puckerman was prudently bringing their bodies closer, their faces nearer, their breath combining together in the same tense air that he gasped at what was really happening, at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Puckerman was going to kiss him. Kiss him. What other explanation was there? What was there to do? Was he going to scream and hope to God someone came rushing to his aid or was he going to help Puckerman achieve his bi-curious fantasy? Ever since the little incident in the gym, the appeal in kissing had drastically decreased. Just the thought of lips touching lips brought back the infamous memories, but what was happening now was one serious judgement call, one Kurt had to act on now. However, he needn't have worried. His exclamation was enough to snap the jock out of his trance, a snap large enough to lose control in his arm as he lost his tight grip on Kurt, sending the brunet to the floor with a callous thud.

Puck, stunned by his actions, went to help him up with an offer of his hand. Observing it warily, Kurt pondered if accepting such help really was the smartest of ideas. The guy not only had 'dishwater dirt-face' written all over him but also 'practical joker', a combination only meant to annoy others to monstrous proportions. However, willing to give Puckerman the benefit of the doubt, Kurt accepted it. Bad idea. As he was in the middle of being aided back onto his feet, the jock caught sight of someone ahead out of the corner of his eye, his body freezing. They were standing at the end of the hall eying the two boys darkly, and their ominous eyes seemed to follow exactly where Puck's hands were feathering themselves over Kurt.

At the sight, Puck let go of Kurt again, sending him falling to the ground once more. There really was a reason why women listened to their feminine intuitions. There really was, and if only Kurt had attuned his common sense to such a frequency, maybe he wouldn't have been nursing a sore behind right about now. Glaring at Puckerman, the brunet guessed that all this was nothing but a juvenile game the boy was playing, a little reminder of the mean playground antics performed by kids with no intelligence number higher than a bubble of foam. Though as he witnessed Puckerman back down slowly before shoving his hands in his pockets and walking briskly away without a single backward glance or word, Kurt frowned.

This was weird. He didn't understand the sudden change of heart. It wasn't going the way it was supposed to, whether that was to help him back up onto his feet or to return into Puckerman's arms where the jock would eye his lips with wild desire, depending on what Puckerman did with him. Yet as Kurt turned around to see Santana glowering at them, everything clicked. Puckerman had obviously caught sight of her and had backed off. Judging by the way his head was cast down as he disappeared around the corner, including even his body language which was attempting to deny anything that was going on between him and Hummel, he was scared of what conclusion the girl was going to jump to. Puckerman was scared.

As a result, Kurt could only glare right back at Santana. It was the only thing she could really understand or go on, seeing as aggression of any kind translated itself into the mother tongue of most Lima Heights citizens. God knew how much she'd seen of his interaction with Puckerman, but no mistake could be made over the way the jock had held him close. There was only one interpretation that could be derived from such intimacy, a feeling she'd always had since the football game. It had just now been cemented right in front of her and even if Kurt hadn't returned Puckerman's attentions, she didn't care. In her eyes, the jock had already moved on from her onto someone, and only five minutes after they'd broken up. This was bad.

Picking himself up, dusting his clothes of the filth that had accumulated there before marching right back to his class, his head held high, Kurt attempted to ignore Santana's fierce gaze on his neck, a gaze that was so heated that it almost seared off baby hairs there. Didn't matter. It was no matter at all. He'd just go ahead with his days working harder to avoid Puckerman and Lopez, to mind his own business and to not find himself encased in muscled arms of the jock. In return, Kurt wished Puckerman would do the same, yet even he had doubts as to whether the venomous glare Santana had thrown the jock had really been powerful enough to deter him, for Puckerman was going to return. They were all sure of that...


	10. Party

The following Tuesday had everyone in the choir room, awaiting the start of Glee club. Rachel had positioned herself in the front row with her legs and feet together, hands clasped in her lap and looking like a prim and proper bible saleswoman, Mercedes was flaunting her new snow leopard print leggings and hot pink sneakers to Tina, who in turn was asking her which funky website she'd ordered both items from, Artie was wheeling himself across the floor and trying to perform neat tricks he'd taken up at the local skating park, and finally Kurt had nestled himself in the second row, straightening the creases out of his skinny jeans. All of them were fully engrossed in their worlds, until in came Mr. Schuester, his smile bright and perky.

"Everyone I have an announcement. I would like to introduce the new additions to New Directions Glee Club: Samuel Evans, Quinn Fabray, Mike Chang and Brittany Pierce," announced the music teacher as everyone in the club whipped their heads in unison towards the left hand door. Indeed, two jocks and two Cheerios were making their way into the room, their faces slightly unsure, but nevertheless aflame in enthusiasm, their eyes scoping out the room as they made to their seats.

Making his way over to the piano where piles of scores lay atop its surface, Mr. Schuester shuffled through them all before turning around to see the questioning looks on the veteran members of the club. Popular students in a 'lame ass' club? How had their teacher done it? Grinning, Mr. Schuester explained. "No recruiting needed for these guys. They signed themselves up for the club, which I really am happy about so, please, make them feel welcome… and that includes you, Ms. Berry."

"I haven't said anything," retorted Rachel as Kurt smiled heartily. He raised his head to watch the new arrivals plop themselves down in the back row, his eyes following how they all adjusted themselves in their seats, whilst Rachel continued to blabber on with mock hurt so thick, he cringed. "Besides, Mr. Schue, I'm insulted that you would think that I wouldn't be happy for our new members. Now we are that much closer to twelve people within the choir, I'm as delighted as you are."

"I know, Rachel, but I just don't want you to scare them away with your more than confident attitude. When it comes to show choir you can exhibit some rather overpowering tendencies which can… unsettle your peers. So try to become aware of that when the time arises, all right," the teacher replied, Rachel gaping in disbelief as Kurt looked at Mercedes' amused reaction, because truth was, both of them could easily nod their heads in agreement to everything that had just been said.

It was evident Mr. Schuester had laid into the girl only because he'd wanted to let Rachel as well as the new arrivals know that she would not be able to get away with her boisterous nature. That was understandable since Kurt was still very much surprised that anyone, especially popular students high up on the status ladder, would be interested in singing and dancing to show tunes. Shrugging, Mr. Schuester continued, "Right is everyone settled? Is everyone comfortable?"

With a round of nods answering the question, Mr. Schuester began to speak, his hands illustrating his words as everyone tuned in to listen. "Now, guys, we have some work to do. I want to know what everyone's taste in music is, okay? So by next week, I want you all to come in and perform a song you believe you can pull off, succeed in and then, through that, I'll be able to determine everyone's strengths and weaknesses for the group songs. Is that cool with everybody?"

"Can we spend this session coming up with ideas, Mr. Schue?" Tina asked as everyone looked to Mr. Schuester for the answer. Kurt was interested to know as well, even if this assignment was rather pointless seeing as all auditions had been judged by the music teacher, a round of performances that had them singing songs they liked but could also 'pull off'. It just seemed like a lazy task to be set, but then again, it would be fun, a pleasant first activity for the newbies.

"That's a good idea, Tina. All of you can use this room, the music practice rooms if the music teachers aren't in there, the auditorium if the drama students aren't using it and anywhere else where no one will tear your voice box out if you disturb their work; now you may go," dismissed Mr. Schuester, making his way towards Artie who had raised his hand for song selecting advice. Turning around to observe the new comers from his second-tier perch, Kurt took them all in.

Samuel or 'Sam' as he was commonly named, was the blonde boy he had seen in Puckerman's entourage. Kurt had never spoken to him before, seeing as he had no reason to, but he looked like a nice enough guy considering he had never insulted him with homophobic remarks. A decent jock was a rare breed, one with bleached blonde hair even rarer. Almost slick with thick conditioner, roots that had been touched by the bottle, a distinct smell of peroxide with the sunlight from the windows rendering it near white, almost albino looking. Was his hair real? Sam would be tongue-tied with embarrassment if he were asked. A Scandanavian Justin Bieber style wig that set quite a contrast to the jet black hair of Mike Chang sitting next to him.

Like Sam, Kurt hadn't said two words to Mike but that was because they ran in separate circles. From the looks of it, Mike looked like an all-round athletic, easygoing boy, Oriental, with his handsome slanted eyes fixated on Tina, oblivious, her sweet face somewhat made gloomier in full on Goth attire. According to Tina, it was a look many boys didn't 'dig', and her refusal to look any different was the reason why she'd never been involved with anyone, not to mention her mother's strict rule that she couldn't date a boy who wasn't of their ethnicity. Allegedly. Yet there Mike was, staring. Every nuance of a twitch in his eye, mouth, drool glistening in its corner was unmissable under Kurt's smug gaze. This goth girl was going to get some.

Finally, there were the girls, Quinn and Brittany, who were both exchanging ideas through eager chatter. They'd both smiled at him when they'd entered, and he them, but he'd not waved. He'd not wished the other Cheerio hating Glee members to frown his way, though with them all occupied, he spared a glance, noticing subtle looks Quinn was throwing Sam, with irises dilated, lips puffed and pink, her seat almost straining with the many times she would cross her legs, as if she were hiding something, arousal, moisture. Sam himself had not noticed, had no idea. How he would react would be something to watch. With hair like that, it brought sexuality into question and Kurt could not blame Quinn. Sam was a real hottie, blonde and all.

Twisting himself back to face the front, Kurt pulled out his iPhone and scrolled through his library for potential numbers. They could sing anything which meant they weren't constricted to portraying one particular emotion and Kurt was pleased at the liberty. He would have to choose a song unlike anything he'd already sung, one that he decided would be sensual, not necessarily sexy, although that would be the side note, but sensual in the sense that the lyrics would conjure up the need for intimacy, for an inseparable closeness. The vocals would have to ooze with colors of warm breath, singing over a melody that would be orchestrated to create a classic tune that would melt the heartstrings of every listener. Now there was an idea.

"Hey, Kurtie!" Brittany joined Kurt unexpectedly, making him jump in his seat as he almost dropped his phone to the floor. He hadn't expected the girl to pounce on him since she had just been engaged in conversation with Quinn… who by the looks of it was now talking to Sam. Obviously, yet Brittany didn't seem to mind that her company had been dumped in favor of a boy. She was too kind to take it as a bad thing, Kurt supposed. "What are you going to sing? Have you chosen something yet?"

"No, I haven't, but I've got an idea of what I want to sing. It's just a matter of finding the right song," smiled Kurt, Brittany leaning over to his side as her eyes glossed over his phone. Kurt knew that the genre of music the blonde went for was more dance, electronic and techo, styles that were often pushed aside in Glee in favor of the real show choir stuff, since attention was lavished more on vocal than on the instrumental, which was understandable. "Have you a song in mind, Britt?"

"Nope, I have none whatsoever. That's why I'm here with you, Kurtie. I thought you could help me out," grinned Brittany, shifting her eyes from the phone's glowing screen to him. The problem was, Kurt had never heard the girl sing, so he'd have to hear her before he could help. Sensing his hesitation, Brittany continued. "Please, Kurt. It would really mean a lot of me. I don't know what suits my voice and after the song you sang about shooting people down in assembly, I really want you."

"Britt, that song wasn't literally about shooting someone down with a gun, it was just a metaphor for when you hurt someone emotionally," replied Kurt as Brittany 'oh'ed before nodding her head. He wanted to laugh, at least giggle at what she'd interpreted the song to be, but when remembering whom it had been for and what it had been based on, he didn't. Instead, he hastily moved on. "Anyway, why don't you do something similar to what you auditioned with?"

"Good idea! Oh... no, I can't do that," began Brittany, her face dissolving into disappointment for a bout of ecstatic joy too short for comfort. Urging her on, Kurt laid his hand on her thigh in reassurance. "When I auditioned, I hardly sang. Instead, I danced, and it was the same with Mike. We're not so much singers as we are dancers and even though Mr. Schue said we could help with choreographing numbers, the whole point of this task is to sing, and I have no idea which song to go for."

"Tell you what, Britt. I'm going to help you," smiled Kurt, almost falling out of his chair as Brittany launched herself on him, wrapping her arms around him as she hugged him tight. "I remember when Rachel and Tina guilt tripped me into auditioning and I had no idea what to go for. It would have made my life much easier if I'd had someone to help me. Plus, I owe you for helping me get into shape for the Cheerios, you know, helping me with the dancing and everything. It's the least I could do."

As Brittany retracted herself from him, she smiled, her eyes shining gratefully back. Kurt didn't care why Rachel, Tina and the whole school thought that Brittany was the stupidest person in the 21st Century, let alone Lima. He didn't care that she had apparently slept with every jock in the school, but when he really started to care was when, despite her good-natured persona, Brittany would decide to hang out with people who were not nice to her. That didn't involve Quinn by any means. Quinn had been nothing but kind to both of them. No. He meant Santana. If the girl was able to persuade abortion in the mind of a self-conscious and insecure set of parents, corrupting a naïve mind like Brittany's would be a cake walk.

For Brittany, she'd always found Kurt interesting, different from all the boys around, with an aroma of strawberry and lime, not of armpits and dirt webbed feet. His sense of dress was well coordinated. Simple, with pastel, almost toddler like color schemes, form-fitting all around to show off assets like his ass, firm with little bounce like jelly, tightened in those jeans, made to look like two large breasts about to burst with milk. He had an attractive personality and coloring, vanilla shaded skin and hair, the latter soft, clean and cocoa tinted with not a hint of grease or dandruff on his shoulders and, to top it all off, he was her unicorn, a gentle kind-hearted soul. If she'd been a hot guy, she'd have snatched Kurt up in a second. He was perfect.

"Britt, there is something I have to ask you… why did you join Glee Club?" asked Kurt, looking over at Brittany, her expression slightly taken aback by the sudden shift in the conversation. Looking around to see what the others were doing, she noticed Quinn and Sam discussing song choices at the back, Tina and Mike at the piano chatting away, Tina sitting on the bench and Mike leaning against the large black instrument, and Mercedes, Rachel and Artie gone to practice elsewhere.

Everyone seemed to be too busy, preoccupied with their own projects to spare them a glance and as she looked back at the fair-skinned, expectant boy, she threw him a cheerless look, throwing him off completely. It was as if she had not been wanting him to ask such a question, that it was best unanswered if it were ever uttered, yet Kurt wished to know. Putting his iPhone to one side, he angled his body towards her, his brows furrowing. "What is it Britt? Were you forced to join the club?"

"No Kurt, don't be silly. We weren't forced."

"Well then... do you not like it here already? It's only been... fifteen minutes."

"Oh no, it's not that."

"Because I can go talk to Mr. Schue if you're not enjoying yourself."

"No, no Kurt. Glee's great, its plenty fun. It's just that I felt so bad for you guys after you sang for the first time in assembly," answered Brittany honestly, looking almost as if she were about to weep as her eye sight moved down to her lap before she raised it to meet his gaze. In response, Kurt placed his hand comfortingly on hers, and encouraged her to continue before her emotions overtook speech. "There was that small slip up and the whole school was so mean to you. It wasn't cool."

"It's alright, Britt. We haven't yet been torn down completely," assured Kurt, rubbing her hand with sparks of warmth. He had no idea the girl had been giving him attention beyond aiding him with his choreography and stretching techniques. Frankly, he was somewhat stunned by the revelation. Obviously, the girl pitied his school life and most people with a heart would, but to use it as a key example to join the struggling school choir exhibited a character within her that he could only praise.

"I'm glad that Sylvester wanted you as a Cheerio, but I didn't like it when Santana and all the others shunned you and tried to make you quit," Brittany continued. "Same with Puck and his friends. They all want you gone, except me. I didn't want you to leave, Kurt. You're special and you don't deserve to be thrown out just because you're my happy unicorn. So, I convinced Quinn to join the club with me and she convinced Sam, but only because she likes Sam and Mike because he likes Tina."

"I guessed something was going on there. Well, anyway, thanks for bringing them all along to join, Britt. It was very good of you, you've really helped us out a lot," Kurt complimented as Brittany's depressed expression morphed into a full on beaming smile. He loved seeing the girl smile, considering she could light up a room in a way only she could and he loved that she didn't have any plans to undermine the club – or at least he didn't think she did. It wasn't really in her M.O.

Pulling out his iPhone, Kurt handed it to Brittany so that she could gain at least some inspiration for a song from a library of material that would hopefully accommodate her tastes, and as she did, Rachel, Mercedes and Artie returned into the room. Rachel's confident face obviously indicated to all that a song had been selected within the given time. Mercedes still looked as though she hadn't chosen a tune as of yet and Artie seemed to be reciting his song's lyrics under his breath. They all came to sit down and gossip about the assignment and with that, Kurt looked back at Brittany, who was currently listening to a booming thumper. This girl was really going to be responsible for adding the bass beats to Glee's otherwise weak supports.

"Hey, listen, everyone: I just want to invite anyone here if they're interested to come as like my plus ones to Finn Hudson's party tonight," announced Sam as everyone turned around, his cheeks flushing as every eye landed on him. "If I give you all my cell, you can text me all your numbers and I can give you directions if you don't actually know where he lives. It starts at six and it'll probably end around midnight but you can come and go as you please. Oh, and you have to dress up."

A moan followed through the room, yet it wasn't the idea of fitting himself into a costume that got to Kurt. He knew Finn was a good enough guy to him but since he was one of the cool kids, that only translated to him having a lot of dick-faced friends who would just enjoy ripping on Kurt for being attracted to men. He knew that if he went, he'd no doubt only come out in tears, his clothes totally ripped apart at the seams with alcohol and vomit stains staining the material. It seemed more like hell than a party and so with that, he decided against the idea. The prospect of being safe in his room, working on his Glee homework instead of being torn to pieces and thrown in the gutter somewhere was so much more appealing.

"I'm not going to go," replied Mercedes as she stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder, the school bell ringing in the distance and signaling the end of the school day. "I can't make it, but I hope you guys have fun and make sure to let me in on the party juice." Kurt suspected that the girl just didn't want to dress up, and even she did, it would be in her own abstract wardrobe, a look which to most at McKinley would also constitute as dress up, as ignorant of fashion as they all were.

However, Kurt was glad he wasn't the only one not attending, mostly because he didn't want to feel like an outcast within the group. He didn't even know Finn very well anyway and it just seemed strange to attend the party of someone he wasn't familiar with beyond a nodding acquaintance. Decision made, Kurt left the room with the others as they headed towards their lockers, depositing all the books they didn't need to take home. Yet at the last minute, he held back and headed instead to the gym. All this talking of dance music with Brittany had his body pumped for some movement and for him it sounded far more stimulating than going to a party where he knew very well a certain boy with a Mohawk would be attending.

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

The night was clear with the stars in full view. No cloud was in sight by the time Kurt left the school with Mercedes late that evening. Being October, the sun was saying goodbye a lot earlier, which meant that even though both of them had to walk home in the dark, it was refreshing to take in the night air. This was the second time Kurt had to walk home since his car was currently in the garage for repairs. He would have done it himself considering he liked to think that he could look after his own possessions, but his father had insisted on doing it back up for him. Apparently, big parts needed big hands and although he could make intricate work of wires due to his nimble fingers, larger components were out of reach until he was older.

Walking was good exercise anyway. Kurt had spent two hours stretching, followed by dancing, followed by another round of stretching. In fact, it had got to the point where he'd probably done around a week's worth of warm-ups, something he felt like boasting about but in the end didn't. That achievement was all his. Mercedes had also tagged along, where she'd completed her Physics homework as well as watched him do moves that could very much have been mistaken for choreography from Cirque De Soleil. It was rather impressive and quite a successful form of distraction, yet when Kurt had inquired after her reason for not attending the party, the reply had been plain and simple: she wasn't interested.

It puzzled Kurt at first. Mercedes wasn't invited to these events often, not many of them were, so why turn it down? After all, she was much more likely to be invited than Kurt ever was. Sexuality seemed to really run that deep in the minds of others, until he remembered the party list: asshole, dick and, oh, another house full of assholes. They would all taunt Mercedes on her weight and in extreme circumstances, would sneak even in minor racism, thus resulting in their conversation adopting the more favorable sound of Glee club's brand new assignment, if Mercedes had her eyes peeled for anyone in particular and, of course, the strange new fortune that had presented itself for them all in the cool kid forms of Sam, Mike, Quinn and Brittany.

It turned out Kurt wasn't the only one who was immensely surprised, with the diva wondering what their real motives were behind joining. He had tried to reduce her suspicious mind to only a few scenarios but, in the end, he had just let her imagine. The stuff that came out of that girl's mouth was wacky as hell but it was also hilarious. However, Kurt didn't bother letting her know that the most likely reason people had joined, was because it was comprised of pity and puppy love, and he had an inkling that if the girl managed to dig a little deeper before striking gold, the real reasons would be shooting out of her mouth like a slot machine at Atlantic City. It was an aspect he didn't think Mike, Tina, Sam or Quinn would appreciate all that much.

They were just about to go their separate ways home when the loud sound of thumping music could be heard in the distance. Both of them stopped and looked down the street. A few houses away was a building with the lights blaring and the people outside, mingling and hanging around. It was obviously Finn Hudson's party, an event they both had decided not to attend, but after catching sight of a glint in the diva's eye, Kurt sighed. Mercedes had made it very clear that she didn't want to go, but there he was, striding to catch up with her as she bee-lined for the house, her measly excuse being that she merely wished to check the place out, catch a drink or two, maybe meet up with Rachel and Tina, that is if they were still alive.

What was the use? All their friends were probably done for, torn to shreds, ripped to pieces. There was no point saving them now. Coming to a stop at the front of the house, a number of their peers talking, laughing and eying them with inquiring frowns, both Kurt and Mercedes looked up at the building in front of them, their bodies now to wary and cautious to move. Finn's home wasn't really all that impressive but it was quite large, styled in the traditional 1970s woodsman forest cottage, horror movie like, except bigger, louder. All the lights were on, all the curtains were drawn and the sound of music mixed in with intoxicated teenagers screaming to make themselves heard over the huge din was the sole soundtrack of the night.

Kurt scowled, pulling his bag nearer to him. He didn't want to be here and he was sorely tempted to ditch his friend and leave. However, it was no use. No sooner had the first minute ticked from their stumbling arrival than Mercedes had begun timidly walking up to the front door, swiftly dodging a girl vomiting in the flowerbed as her friend held back her hair. It was revolting. Was this really the lifestyle teenagers were interested in? To Kurt it just seemed reckless, loud and stupid. He couldn't see the fun, the amusement, anything and as he made to grab hold of the diva's arm, he prayed she would come to her senses, blame her lack of judgment from the smell of sweat and sex, and return home where eardrums were still intact.

"Oy, Mademoiselle Hummel, let her go if she wants to join the party! She's probably had enough hanging out with a fruit loop like you!" Bellowed a voice a few meters away, yet not even an endless string of meters could be sufficient for that voice to be ever be far enough. Kurt as well as Mercedes whipped their heads around to see none other than Puckerman making his way towards them, a red cup in his hand no doubt filled with cheap beer or some other revolting alcoholic concoction.

"Oh lovely," muttered Kurt to himself. It wasn't fair. He hadn't even wanted to be here and if only Mercedes hadn't turned back on her rejected invitation, or if he hadn't felt the need to go after her in case she injured herself, he wouldn't be finding the boy he imagined gassing smirking right back at him menacingly. Turning to Mercedes, he spoke quietly with his voice still tinted in urgency. There was no way he was still reserved after their stroll. "'Cedes, let's get out of here before he-"

"Did you hear what I said, Hummel? Leave her alone. There's only so much of the gay that she can handle," interrupted Puckerman as he came to stand before them. Glaring at the jock, Kurt's grip on his friend never let go and as he refused to budge for a second in the wake of Puckerman standing too close for comfort as if to knock him out cold with a punch as strong as Superman's, the mohawked boy's evil smile widened. "Hudson's not gonna want people like you at his party."

"Hudson's not going to care, Puckerman. Stop speaking on behalf of others when you know very well they don't run on the same wave length as you do, that of a troglodyte," replied Kurt as Mercedes pressed herself further into his side, her eyes darkening. "The only person here who does have a problem is a certain someone with a three-decade old haircut, a face that looks like a haggis with pointed toes and a body like a tight old bladder skin holding together some rotting old offal. You."

"What have I told you, homo, about answering back? For someone with a witty tongue you really don't catch onto the threats, do you," answered Puck, swirling the drink in his cup with a twist of his wrist as he took a step towards both of them. Kurt felt like staying put, he felt like holding his ground, yet tonight, he didn't want to risk anything. He didn't want Mercedes hurt because of him. "You know what's going to happen to you if you continue disobeying me, don't you Hummel?"

"Just go back to whatever hell-hole you came from and leave us in peace," replied Kurt, glowing ambers of anger spitting off the tip of his own tongue as he held on tighter to Mercedes. He almost felt like grabbing hold of the cup from Puckerman and throwing it in his face. The jock liked to drink? Kurt would let him drink. "We don't want to breathe in anymore of that rank smelling air pollution that is your breath than is utterly necessary. I mean, what have my lungs ever done to you?"

The jock's smirk faltered slightly but quickly reappeared, offering Kurt the vital glimpse he needed. Puckerman was drunk. Whether he had been for some time or not, Kurt didn't know. The jock's balance was weak, judging by the way he kept swaying and stumbling to regain his footing. His eyes had a somewhat glossy appearance to them, his blinking coming in slow intervals and now that Kurt came to think about it, Puckerman's voice had been slightly slurred, syllables hardly formed for coherence as they failed to leave his tongue with much clarity. Great, now he was being introduced to the new version of this idiot, Noah Puckerman: Drunk Edition with matching beer. Terms and conditions apply. Non-refundable, of course.

Apart from the long list of alcohol side effects that Puckerman was experiencing, Kurt could not help but notice how very differently the jock was behaving towards him compared to when they'd been in the fancy dress store and when he had bumped into him in the corridor. The jock had returned to his former self and something in Kurt actually missed the briefly somewhat nicer Puckerman that he had been fortunate to encounter. He liked to think it had been Noah, the boy hidden within, moreover trapped. Noah, oh Kurt could smile about him all day long. Now, however, it seemed everything was back to business as usual, but this time with booze on the jock's breath, rendering the situation all the more infuriating.

"I'm still pissed after what you called me, Hummel. Fucking pissed. Don't think I've forgotten because I haven't," replied Puck as he leaned into Kurt's personal space, the brunet wincing as he took a step back from the boy's putrid breath, yet it didn't stop Puckerman nearing him once against, almost kissing and licking his ear as he slurred a threat. "I'm going to smash your pretty little head into the ground and you're not going to say no. You'll learn never to mess with me."

"You're not in the right state to be smashing anyone's head into the ground, you loser. I mean, look at you. You can barely stand or hold that cup without spilling the crap you've got in it. Come to think of it, I would happily bet fifty dollars to watch you throw that cup at the ground and miss," countered Kurt, popping out his hip defiantly, almost setting up a daring challenge through body language as Mercedes burst into laughter, her boy's wit the only party here.

However, such a move was severely unwise as Puck, not liking for one minute being made fun of, and by a couple of dweebs no less, went and crushed his cup in his bare hand. Droplets of beer flew everywhere, a couple even skimming across Kurt's cheek like that from a gun's bullet, before he threw the cup to the ground, its remaining contents staining the stone pathway before staggering towards them. Gasping in fright as he dodged the jock's attack, Kurt pulled Mercedes away and pelted down the pathway, Puckerman heavy on their tails. He wasn't expecting their pursuer to hold out long but as the brunet looked over his shoulder, fully expecting Puckerman to have already fallen unconscious to the ground, his eyes widened.

Puckerman was pursuing them, ever angry, ever furious and even though they were running from the party, from the source of fun, the jock didn't stop. He was so going to kill them, and to think Kurt was never going to see the day when Puckerman would work for him. How sad. Feeling the need to discourage their attacker, the terrible thought of being beaten up fresh in his mind, Kurt shouted out, "Stop chasing us, Puckerman; you're only going to get yourself hurt! Leave as alone, please!"

"No way, Rainbow boy! You've already gotten away with too much, I'm not letting you get away!" Puckerman howled and the sheer danger in his voice was enough to thin Kurt's blood to nothing. It almost did as Kurt recalled how fast the jock was. Puckerman was one of the fastest boys he'd ever known, and Kurt could only hope that the alcohol had been stewing long enough in the jock's system to wreck enough havoc on his coordination. Tonight their fates were in the hands of booze.

As they continued sprinting, their panting loud and the night air whipping against their skin, against them, they approached Mercedes' home. Kurt insisted that his house wasn't far and that he'd make it there easily in no time. The diva, knowing that she would only wear Kurt down with her less than toned legs and tolerance for running, as well as knowing that her boy was more than warmed up for all this after his porn star like stretches, reluctantly agreed. She parted from him, the only weapon disposable to her now being glares she shot Puckerman as he shoved her aside. No doubt she'd come to school tomorrow with a hacksaw along with a body bag with 'Mohawked White Boy' taped to it. Kurt could always look forward to that.

Unfortunately, Puckerman had not for one-second ceased chasing him. For someone who was intoxicated, it was amazing he'd lasted for this long on supports that ought to have given way by now. He'd been running for some time, and with some vigor, as if unaffected or even immune to the effects of cheap beer, coming after him with limbs that staggered, now blundering without his usual running back agility, or grace, all seen as Kurt would frequently look over his shoulder in short episodes, scoping out his chaser's whereabouts. If this had been a playground game of tag, the fair boy might have laughed, might have lightly taunted Puck only to have himself caught, both of them falling into a happy grass rolling hug. Not this night.

"Come back here, Hummel! I'm not… I'm not finished with you yet!"

"Yes you are, you lunatic! You're plenty finished!"

"You deserve this! Let me have my revenge and then I'll… I'll let you go – ow, shit!"

"What the..."

At the sound of a stumble, a curse and a fall, Kurt stopped in his tracks. He looked around and his eyes widened as he came to see Puckerman sprawled in the middle of the road, his great 'guns' packed full with that Puckerman Power now trembling as weak as twigs as they did their best to haul that compacted, muscular body back onto its feet, all of course, in vain. It was an option to make a run for it. So tempting to leave Puckerman to struggle like this, as if he was some netted animal on the Savannah, only to be gassed with Chloroform, to have the night take him, to let him lose track of his whereabouts only to be found drowned in a ditch the next morning, face down, motionless on water skimmed in vomit that had settled on its skin.

The jock had admittedly made a complete fool of himself. He'd tried to teach a supposed lesson to a boy he liked picking on, yet as a result, he was lying slumped, helpless and feeble under the harsh golden light of the street lamp with Kurt now sighing to himself. He cursed his mother's kind nature that she had bestowed upon him, and wished kindness wasn't allowed to be given to those who didn't deserve it. Dropping his bag by the pavement, he walked carefully towards Puckerman. After all, he didn't want to hear the following morning that the jock had died from being hit by a car. His guilty conscience would most likely have exploded all over his television screen, and it was this sliver of mercy that had him nearing the boy.

As Kurt looked down at him, his eyes trailed over Puckerman's attire, his mind only now realizing what it was. It was the soldier 'Sergeant Bulge' outfit from the costume store, the same one Kurt had suggested which consisted of boots, trousers, a dog tag chain with a bare chest painted in streaks of camouflage. It was quite a surprise and Kurt had to congratulate himself on this one because Puckerman looked very good in it, very masculine and all right, very sexy. He supposed he would have seen it sooner if he hadn't bolted from the store like he had done, but he was seeing it now on a body weak on beer and smelling of sweat, until suddenly a hand shot out and grabbed hold tightly of his ankle, causing Kurt to squeal in terror.

"Jesus, Hummel, calm the fuck down! Your girly voice is worse than a cat's fucked up vocal chords," complained Puckerman as Kurt breathed heavily in response. Slowly bringing himself to a sitting position, the jock stretched out his legs and leaned his elbows on his knees before finally resting his head in his hands. There he just seemed to stay for several minutes, not speaking, not even moaning away the excess of his beer intake. He just stayed there, rooted to a point of immobility.

Kurt didn't know what to do. There he was, standing in the middle of a deserted street at night with only his bully for company. It wasn't something he wanted to be involved in and considering his house was only down the road, he could once again think about ditching this pest. However, just the way Puckerman was trembling, his body shaking, his head no doubt throbbing from the cold and from a massive headache no less, he dropped the idea. It just didn't feel like the right to do, as if Kurt now held responsibility for him. With that odd thought in mind, the boy kneeled to the jock's level, slowing as Puckerman lifted his head and eyed his descent warily, his eyelids fluttering, drooping to near closure, but still very much open.

"What the fuck do you want, Hummel?" Inquired Puckerman, Kurt placing his hands neatly in his lap as he observed the boy before him. He didn't think such a thing would, but somehow the curse the jock had uttered seemed so poisonous in the sentence, adding a sharp stab of darkness into the question. "Why aren't you still running? Why are you even here? You want to laugh at me? Want to laugh at how pathetic I look right now? Go ahead; I don't give a shit anymore."

"I'm not going to laugh at you, Puckerman. I'm not going to sink to your level where the thought of revenge or retribution is the only thing you jocks feed yourselves on. I like to think I'm more sophisticated than that," Kurt replied, his head high as he unexpectedly frowned back down at Puckerman's snort of laughter so thick with disparagement, it was positively dripping with derision. The boy was not bothering to hide his amusement which most definitely wasn't making it easy to stay.

Once Puckerman had recovered, wiping his mouth with his arm as if he were throwing away the final traces of his laughter with disgust meant for the ground, he looked over at Kurt with nothing short of loathing before looking away into the distance, his face gloomy as ever. Yet this only served Kurt to seethe a retort in response. "I don't know why you find this so funny. Despite you having a naturally sick and twisted sense of humor, it really isn't all that amusing."

"Yeah, it fucking is," countered Puckerman as he whipped his head to face Kurt, the brunet blinking in surprise as he took in Puckerman's hard look. It pierced into his own and in that moment, Kurt swore the energy seemed to shift into a stinging like pain. It was very disconcerting, but before he look away, the jock had shot out his hand once again and grabbed hold of his wrist, bringing himself closer to Kurt, their proximity's nearing as the frightened boy came that much closer to the soldier.

"You think you're better than us, Hummel? You think you can walk around the school with that pompous look on your face and think you're better than everyone? You remind me of those chicks at school who think they're so hot, strutting around with their tits nearly falling out of their tops and their skirts so high you can see their pussies. Want to know what happens to them, Hummel? All they get is a throat full of cock and the slash in between their legs filled until they burst-"

"Stop it!"

"You know, you're prettier than most of the chicks I've fucked, Hummel. Sure you don't have a wet cunt under there for me?"

"Stop threatening me, Puckerman. Stop being such a-"

"A low life scum? Tell me Hummel, who wrote that note in the costume shop? Who did it? Because I sure as hell know I didn't."

"That's nothing compared to the torture you've put me through! Those were just words I needed to expel for you to see and on a measly piece of paper no less," Kurt replied indignantly, disbelief wrapping itself around his voice as his temper rose. He tried to wrench his wrist out of Puckerman's tight clutch but it stayed there, only pulling the jock closer to him, closer and closer. Oh, how Kurt couldn't fucking bear it. He wanted Puckerman off of him, he didn't want the boy anywhere near him.

How could Puckerman think for one-second that what he and his cohorts had done was on the same level? How could he be so blindly delusional? Or was he purposefully trying to push on Kurt's buttons to make him lose more of his control? Kurt didn't know which one was worse and the fact that it was either one of these options was just what infuriated him further. "How can you compare the gravity of what you and your friends have done with a message that didn't even hurt you?"

"That's not the point, Hummel. The point is you let your anger get away with you and as a result, you wrote that note and sank to my level. Don't think you're any better than us, because you're not," argued Puckerman as his own fury rose. Kurt may not have understood how torn he had been after he had seen that note but he wasn't about to let him get away with thinking he was right for doing it. "And for your information, that was a low blow you dealt me, and it hurt... it fucking hurt."

"Yeah, right, like no matter how many times I insult you it's never going to sink into that dim-witted head of yours! God, I can't be bothered arguing with you because there really is no point! I see no final conclusion with this on the horizon because you're just going to keep fighting me until I do grant your wish by leaving this god-forsaken town!" Kurt wrenched his hands out of Puckerman's grasp, rocketed to his feet, and glared down at the jock as Puckerman looked up at him with equal rage.

All the things that Kurt had been through with this bully was now rushing out of his mouth like an endless list of casualties, a list that only puzzled and hurt him to speak out loud but with it, a need, a want and a necessity to make himself heard against his chief oppressor. As he spoke, he articulated every vowel, consonant and syllable in every single word he uttered and with that, he loomed over Puckerman, eclipsing the light behind him and towering over a boy who needed to hear this. If the jock made to grab hold of him again, fine, if he wished to pull Kurt down to the ground and pin him to the road, so be it, but the boy's mouth would keep talking, it would keep moving for nothing could stop it from expelling the truth of it all.

"You called me 'fag' the in the Lima mall, you've thrown me in dumpsters, you mutilated my bag, you've hurt my friends, you stole my sketch pad only to confuse me later when we played dress up in the freaking store like we didn't hate each other. You acted weird when you nearly knocked me to the ground in the corridor and to top that all off, in gym class, some guy thought that it would be side-splittingly hilarious to steal my first kiss and make a fuck-up of it at the same fucking time!"

"You've got to be kidding."

"What?"

"You... you didn't... you didn't like it?"

"What... what you are you saying?"

Puck's fury had waned in the light of Kurt's unexpected admission. He was now completely astounded. When it had come to kissing Kurt, he'd been so enraptured by his own pleasure during the act that he hadn't for once stopped to think what Kurt had felt. He'd just assumed that because he'd found it good, Kurt had found it good. That's how it had ever worked out in the past. Girl's and cougars loved kissing him, often expressing their love with the moans of pleasure they would emit from their swollen lips but this, to have Kurt bash his skills in making out was just a violent slap in the face. This could not be happening. Kurt could not take away the memory of a hot kiss only to burn, scorch and scar it away with criticism. No! Fuck no!

Quickly recovering from his own near confession as Kurt threw him an inquisitive frown at the sheer concern in his voice, Puck cleared his throat whilst he attempted to mentally shake himself from the shock. Yet what his mind attempted to communicate to his body had clearly failed to inform his mouth as within another set of seconds, a river of disconnected words were embarrassing him into clearing his throat a tad too frequently. "But how… I mean… what the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh, please like you didn't applaud whoever did it. Was it you, Puckerman? Are you behind all this? Did you come up with that immature plan and then use one of your repugnant minions to carry it out? If so, congratulations! It's because of you that something I've always wanted to share with someone I care about will now never happen!" With that, Kurt threw Puckerman a repulsive look before storming off in the direction of his bag, a ferocious growl escaping from a cage of fanged like teeth.

He was positive that the jock had had something to do with what had happened in the gym that day. Absolutely positive, and even though he hadn't any proof of the boy's involvement, he could tell by the look in Puckerman's eyes that he had been implicated. He'd been watching on and laughing with pure delight along with all his idiotic friends, fully amused as Kurt had been manhandled, inappropriately touched and sexually assaulted. He could tell someone, tell Ms. Sosa. She'd no doubt seen what had been going on, but no. No one would believe him. No one would help him. With that, Kurt heaved his bag onto his shoulder and without a single, backward glance; he made his way home, his angry footsteps echoing in the silent evening air.

As he left the scene, however, Puck was left mulling over the cruel words that had been spewed out in front of him – and he still couldn't take it all in. It was all too shocking. The one kiss – loved by one – was also the one kiss hated by another and it was just something he didn't know how to react to, especially after Hummel had described it in the creative yet stinging he had. Yet this was it. Hummel had once again had the last biting word and it seemed to Puck that they just didn't seem to ease on the venom. He had bitten back. He had affronted Puck with attacks concerning his lower class background and, even though he didn't know it, his talent in a key sexual subject. They were all low blows, and getting lower all the time.

"Damn, Hummel, you are going to get it," whispered Puck into the air too heavy to breathe easily through, picking himself up from the ground and staring after the brunet's retreating figure as it disappeared into the night. Whether that meant Kurt's well-being was now in the red zone or that he was going to make him eat his own piercing words was yet to be decided but one thing was definite: Kurt Hummel wasn't going to escape so easily next time. "You are going to get it now…"


	11. Sheets-N-Things

Sitting at his vanity that Saturday morning, Kurt found himself speaking to Brittany via speakerphone. He'd placed the handset right next to him so that his mouth was an appropriate distance away and while the two spoke, he applied the finishing touches of concealer underneath his eyes. With a few dabs of his finger, the Eminence purple that held within it several tints of blue was now fully covered, rendering his face so much brighter to when he'd woken up, which had to be said, hadn't been that long ago. In fact, he'd just walked out of the shower when his phone had rung and his towel had fallen from his slick body by the time he'd answered it. Yet speaking to someone over the phone, naked and nude, felt oddly relaxing.

Now speaking to Brittany and Kurt was learning of a highly anticipated upcoming personal project of hers - a music video. The blonde had had an idea for one for quite some time, citing the Cheerios as one of her influences but also the panned assembly performance from Glee club, as well as Kurt's solo soon after. She'd taken it upon herself to approach Artie in regards to directing it, whilst also enlisting the help from the AV club, assembling quite a number of crewmembers for the video's construction. The only aspect of the project left to be decided on was who was going to be featured, the vast array of mise en scene elements that needed to be arranged and of course, what the actual music was going to be.

"A music video? That sounds so fun, Britt," smiled Kurt, rising from his vanity as he picked his phone up on the ascent. In response to the enthusiasm that burst like a myriad of colors from his tongue, Brittany squealed in childlike delight, yet Kurt recalled that same squeal in Glee. Frowning, he pressed the issue. "But don't you want to get the Glee assignment Mr. Schue gave us out of the way before you move onto this? I thought I was helping you find a song you wanted to perform."

"You did help me, Kurt. I found the song I'm singing on your iPhone. You've got great music on there," replied Brittany, Kurt grinning to himself as she complimented his music library. His taste in music may be feminine, but it sure got the job done. "Anyway, the thing I wanted to ask is, do you want to be in the video with me? I'm recruiting the Cheerios and some the Titans and I wondered if you wanted to be in it as well. I really want you in it, Kurt. You're so pretty."

"The Titans? Can they even dance?"

"Not really, but they can thrust, and believe me, they did a lot of thrusting in and out of m-"

"Okay Britt, I'll take your word for it. I'm sure you've done the leg work."

"So does that mean you're in? Pretty please!"

"I don't know, Britt," murmured Kurt; as he almost sense her deflate over the phone. It wasn't as if he were flat out rejecting Brittany's offer. He could very well take it up, but student short films and music videos were often displayed on various video-sharing sites to gain exposure, and Kurt didn't feel like gaining exposure. He was content with the attention he had. "I mean it sounds cool but what are you doing to do with the video? You're not going to put it up on YouTube are you?"

"Don't worry, Kurt, I'm not going to put it on the internet. It's just going to be featured on the AV show reel on any school open days so we show all the parents what we get up to," replied Brittany matter of factly, Kurt nodding, impressed at how the blonde had really thought all this through beforehand. "Plus if Sylvester likes it, we can do the same for the Cheerios. It'll feature you, me and it'll be amazing. So what do you say? Please say you're in. Everybody else has."

Sitting himself down on his bed, Kurt pondered the offer. He wasn't really enthusiastic about learning more choreography, considering the ones he had to do for the Cheerios as well as Glee were already very extensive but he supposed exceptions could be made for Brittany. In terms of performing in the video, there didn't seem to be that much to worry about. He could now dance rather well, had stage presence as well as onscreen charisma and he now had enough confidence to undergo this project without much hesitation. In addition, the attractive aspect of film was that one could retake shots and scenes as many times as one liked whilst when one did it live, one only had one try and that was the final product. It sounded good.

"Alright Britt, I'll be in your video," smiled Kurt, laughing as he heard the blonde over the phone jumping up and down, as if she were herself on the her own bed, wearing down it's springs with energetic jumping that would soon end with her lodging herself into the ceiling, pieces of plaster flying everywhere. "All I ask in return is that you tell me what you're using as the music for the video as soon as you decide on a song, and that you teach me the choreography to it way before we film."

"Oh, didn't I say? I'm using 'Be My Lover' by Inna. You also had her on your iPhone. I swear it's like magic, you have everything you ever need on that thing," answered Brittany, Kurt once again nodding in approval at the song choice, for it was a monster. A saucy like mixture of pop and dance, produced by Afrojack and METI, killer produces that would be sure to have everyone on their feet begging everyone to be their lovers. Now this was going to be one hell of a music video.

"I can already tell you're going to have a field day choreographing for this, Britt, and I now it's going to be good because it's you," complimented Kurt, his mind conjuring into existence moves that sure to set the heat high. Bodies were going to be close, everyone touching, the eyes, the thrusting. This thing was going to be one hot affair. "I only hope I look good whilst dancing. I feel like my loosens all the time so that by the time it's over, I have hair absolutely everywhere."

"You're going to look great, Kurt. I can just see it now anyway: you living in New York and being discovered because of the video. Which leads you to become a dancer, actor or model and then you perform on stage where, I don't know, a really hot millionaire sees you and falls in love with you and you have lots of lots of sex and you live happily ever after," ranted Brittany as Kurt laughed at the preposterous story of opportunities that were going to present themselves from being in her project.

Wishing her a hearty goodbye, with the blonde doing the same, her parting words cheerful and happy, Kurt ended the call. He dropped the phone back onto his bed and lay there, over viewing the conversation, breathing a sigh of relief as he remembered Brittany hadn't even touched the topic of Finn Hudson's party the other night. After all, she'd attended but she didn't know what had happened with him and Puckerman. Most didn't, and it was just as well. Bringing the subject of the jock into the conversation would have rendered the pleasant and high-spirited chat they were having, bitter. It wouldn't have been fair on Brittany to weigh her down with his own problems, even if she may have been interested to know.

Shaking his head, Kurt got up from his bed and stretched his arms and legs before he made his way over to his wardrobe, opening the doors wide and scanning his clothes. Nothing really screamed 'wear me in a music video!' His wardrobe was too plain, simple and a bit dull to be filmed since all the outlandish outfits he had in the past had been thrown away, in favor of the classic, clean and contemporary. Then again, Brittany had mentioned altered versions of the Cheerio Uniforms, taking influence from the outfits in Glee's 'Can't Speak French' number, she planned on touching them up with tastes of French lingerie, with possible lashes of delicious bondage splashed here and there. Very risqué for cheerleaders.

Nevertheless, Kurt was glad he'd accepted to be a part of Brittany's video. He was going out into town with his father today and perhaps he could nip into certain stores, check out what they had and jot down ideas for outfits as well as any props that may be of use, although judging by the town's less than impressive selection of stores, it would be an egg hunt for the right things. If Brittany wished to have anything specific, she'd have to order it online, which would mean trips into town wouldn't be needed, which also meant no running into Puckerman for Kurt, because somehow, someway, Kurt would always find himself in the company of the jock. Perhaps today would be different. Perhaps Puckerman wouldn't be watching him.

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

Later that afternoon, Kurt tagged along with his father to a store he didn't at all like the look of. 'Sheets-N-Things' was one of those shops you didn't visit if you wanted to find the really good quality products – or good quality anything for that matter. Burt had wished to check it out ever since they had moved in, claiming that the store had been there ever since he'd been a child. In fact, it had been where he had landed his very first job as a teen, stacking all sorts of from mattresses and duvets to decorative gnomes and pebble bobble fountains. Kurt, nodding, but not impressed by the nostalgia his father was going through, trudged on heavy feet towards the sliding glass doors, only listening because there really wasn't much else to do.

The warehouse-like home improvement and garden center was large in size to say the least. There were aisles and aisles stocked full to the brim with most kitchen, furniture, garden, decorating, do-it-yourself and bathroom appliances and as Kurt stopped to observe it all, he decided he was not going to be a posh little bugger with a stuck up attitude. He was going to give the place a chance, if not for that then for his father's sake, who was eying everything around him with a glazed glint in his eye. Once they'd entered, Burt informed him that he would be checking out the bathroom department to look for a new shower he had read about in a magazine and, with a wave, he set off to his left, Kurt watching him go as he went.

This actually reminded Kurt that he had to start researching new showers for himself. He was still stuck with one built for an elderly occupant and even though that made the surface area of the whole cubicle that much bigger, the handles and seat just kept getting in the way. Admittedly, after laborious days induced by continuous Cheerio workouts and having to always be on his guard for jocks, Kurt could just sit down, let himself relax against the cool tile wall, which would also work as an ice pack to ease away bruises after frequent locker shoves, and if he found himself too tired to get up, the handles were only an arms length away. However, at this, Kurt winced. Even thinking about it made him feel old. All of it had got to go.

With a little project of his own now scribbling itself down in his mind's to do list, Kurt made his way to the paint department, where tubs and tubs of paints lined the wall as well as their appropriate swatches underneath. There was even a machine by the side of the main display that looked as if it were some kind of mixer. One poured in as little or as many colors as one wished and your desired shade would be created, although judging by the mess, it was evident people didn't know much about color, or chemistry. Besides, Kurt wasn't looking to paint his room or any room, since his grandmother had that already covered, but he thought it might be useful to memorize the color names should he ever think of redecorating in the future.

Coming across a beautiful shade of crimson red, its provocative pigments winking back at him seductively, Kurt recalled how it was known to signal one being a loose and degenerate prostitute. For some it could work very well, for instance on Santana's wall, or even better yet, on Puckerman's face. Kurt blinked at the thought of dropping a tub of red paint on the jock's head and although it was a highly tempting idea, he knew he was already in trouble with him. Plus, thinking about the boy just rendered his nerves rather fidgety and as he tore his eyes away from the colorful display and made his way towards the cushions lined up with the rugs, candles and picture frames, his attention was once again brought back to reality.

Picking up a cushion that had caught his eye towards the front of the shelves, Kurt stroked the smooth material with his hand, genuinely impressed with the quality. The medium-sized head rest had the British flag imprinted on it and it served to remind him of the American rug he had back at home. The design had been purposefully aged to achieve that tatty, vintage look that was so popular and in trend nowadays and as he rested his head on it, it dipped without great force before remolding itself back into its original shape. Kurt loved products that were like this. They were so enjoyable to lounge on, now tucking it under his arm as he continued to browse, his eyes clouded in vague interest as he kept them open for treats.

However, as he neared the back end of the shop, he came across a black door, cleverly hidden in a little alcove, 'Staff Only' written in clear white text on its front. As Kurt peered for a closer look, he caught sight of a glistening code lock, encrusted with silver buttons. When he'd been little, he'd loved to press them all and laugh manically like some deranged scientist in a laboratory, but being older, the sight didn't hold his interest for very long and he shrugged, going back to examine a set of intricate doorknobs, ranging from Victorian to the modern era. Tentatively reaching out to touch the most opulent one of them all, a garden summer house doorknob of Georgian design, Kurt stopped when he heard running footsteps coming his way.

By the sounds of them he guessed they belonged to a child, yet at the speed they were going at, he'd have to go with quite an athletic child, one with a fast pair of limbs. Looking down the aisle, Kurt caught sight of a girl no older than eight, he guessed, with chocolate brown hair and tanned skin come hurtling towards him. He barely had time to swerve out of the way as he was unceremoniously shoved aside, his eyes following the girl as she continued down the aisle at full speed, turning to her right and disappearing around the corner. Pulling a face of irritation, Kurt rubbed his now pained side before returning to the doorknobs on display, huffing in further aggravation when the dull ache took its sweet old time to recede.

Barely thirty-seconds had passed when another set of footsteps came down the aisle. Kurt hesitated yet gave in to glance wearily in their direction, noticing a woman in her forties, her breath coming out in short pants as she was with no doubt struggling to keep up with an-eight-year-old child. Rounding the corner just like the girl had done, the woman disappeared and Kurt had to wait a few seconds before he was sure he wasn't going to get interrupted again. That, unfortunately, was all in vain, for as he moved over to inspect a good looking collection of cupboard door handles ranging from American Classic to French Country, he heard the child shriek in pleasure, crying out a name he really didn't want to hear at the moment.

Pulling his eyes away from the displays with a sigh, Kurt peeked around the corner to see Puckerman, walking out from the staff door, the Sheets-N-Things apron in his hand. This was the first time Kurt knew anything about the jock working here. He'd simply been informed that Puckerman cleaned pools and serviced the women who owned them but when he came to think of it, it was September. The seasons were changing and with that he guessed, the jock's monthly occupation, which he had to say, was an improvement. Sheets-N-Things did appear to be a popular store for high school teens looking for part time work and it did seem to be an all right place to work if you were into cavernous warehouses and air thick with wood soot.

Puckerman had barely taken three steps when the bouncing girl who'd all but catapulted Kurt into hard ass door knobs threw herself into the jock's arms for a bone-crushing hug. Such a heartwarming scene, everyone positioned so perfectly, but naturally posed, a touching sight one might see on a family postcard, 'Happy Hanukkah from the Puckermans!' For Kurt, it was like looking at a tableau made to spark surprise, even shock. The idea of their son being intimate with another human being was hard to comprehend. Perhaps it was solely in the presence of his family that Puckerman would exhibit signs of affection. Perhaps a moma's boy, perhaps overly protective of his sister. Whatever his relationship was with them, it was very close.

This was all that remained of the Puckerman family. The man of the house had long deserted them in favor of brewing his own beer named 'Puckerman's Special Sauce', which allegedly didn't taste all that nice. Puckerman's mother was a good looking lady. Her olive skin was still flushed and clammy-hot from the chase with faint perfume of sour-lemon, almost chemical like, absorbed into it, still lingering somewhat heavily in the same aisle she'd passed Kurt in. She had beautiful green slightly bloodshot eyes that spoke of light alcohol abuse, or perhaps mere exhaustion and her wetted pink lips were smiling down at her hugging children as a loving mother would, a happy family, incomplete somehow but well connected. Very happy in fact.

Kurt knew that this wasn't Puckerman he was seeing before him, it was Noah. All the signs were there. There was no hint of a smirk, no evil glint in his eye and clenched fists showing anywhere. He just looked like the typical teenage boy, greeted by his family after what Kurt assumed was his shift here in the store. His face seemed placid, calm and composed with nothing but love shining down on his little sister and at that second, Kurt felt somewhat yet begrudgingly attracted to him. Okay, that was enough sightseeing on the Sheets-N-Things safari, as he rubbed at his eyes before sighing, turning around to walk down the aisle. He couldn't let this new opinion of Puckerman disrupt the old image for fear of something else cropping up.

No specific time had been scheduled to meet back up with his father, a father who'd never let Kurt out of his sight when he'd been younger, taking his little hand, pudgy in baby fat with his own larger one and never letting go until they'd leave. That or he'd been placed in the shopping cart seat, there to be pushed around large warehouse stores like this one, though Burt had never thought it safe for his little lungs, inhaling such copious amounts of wood dust and fumes wafting up from lead based paints as if Kurt had been breathing in ground glass that would shred his throat from the inside out, not wishing to go as far as placing an anti-pollution mask on his face as they did on so many in China, but getting in and out as fast as possible.

Entering the area on the first floor, Kurt was met with ranges upon ranges of bathrooms from the Nurture range to the Cuba range, to the Sorrano range to the Antilles range. Every single range you could think of and it was here, all of them set up with their sinks, toilets and showers for all customers to browse upon. Booklets containing information on every model accompanied each display and the prices that were printed in bold at the bottom were agreeable. When he had first set foot in the store, Kurt had not been expecting much, but everything here looked pretty decent, more than decent when he came across the likes of the Olympus range. He was like a kid in a candy store, except it sold bathrooms. God, he was so weird.

Nowadays Kurt had noticed that bathrooms, as well as kitchens, were rapidly changing from the once quaint family spaces of American suburbia to full out right clinics, white wastelands that reminded one of Botox injections and Restylane implants. It was the 'perfect reduction' they called it, where you had as little furniture and appliances as was possible to live off. Not only did you have to change your wardrobe to make the latest fashion statement, but also your house. Everything had to be cool. You couldn't wash your hands in a sink anymore, it had to be a bowl, or, of course a shiny flat surface where water poured onto and into infinity. Baths weren't that much better. If anything you no longer had bath tubs, but small coconut husks.

Moving to a round mirror featured in the Crystal range, Kurt inspected his face with the inbuilt lighting that circled the whole mirror. It was a nice effect, but it only served to make his face look rounder than it really was, so he moved to the next. This rectangular mirror in the Verda range did improve his reflection but seemed to stretch his face more vertically than necessary so yet again he moved. The third mirror he came across was very much just right, perfectly proportionate, returning an accurate and all right reflection. It wasn't as if he liked his face anyway. Plus, he didn't want to be experiencing a Goldilocks and the Three Bears scenario only with mirrors and he wasn't tempted to chant Queen Ravenna's question from Snow White.

However, as soon as the thought popped into his head, it stayed there and Kurt couldn't help himself. Glancing around to see that no one was near or worse, watching, he faced the mirror head on, his face looking determinedly back at him. He knew he was being immature and ridiculous, but he shrugged it off in favor of admiring the splendid mirror that looked like an exact replica of the one used in the thirties film. Large and oval in shape with an opulent golden frame forming its side, with a price that must have cost an arm and a leg, which made it all the more tempting, he stepped closer into position, transporting himself into the fairy tale kingdom that had the mood descending and his character appearing as into the glass he stared.

"Flame in the magic mirror, come from the farthest space. Through wind and darkness I summon thee, speak, let me see thy face," Kurt recited, as he tried to remember word for word the lines from the film. Lifting his hands from his sides and dropping the cushion he had been holding down onto the ground, he switched roles from the queen to the mirror, his voice lowering so as to imitate the floating green mask shrouded in purple smoke. "What wouldst thou know my king?"

"Magic mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?" He lifted his head high, his hands stroking his cream-colored jeans as he pouted exaggeratedly back into the mirror, his eyes batting like Jessica Rabbit, yet taking in his comic take on flirtation which couldn't fool even a monk, Kurt burst into laughter, only resuming his stance once he had settled down. "Famed is thy beauty, Majesty, but hold a lovely maid I see. Rags cannot hide her gentle grace; alas, she is more fair than thee."

"A lash for her. Reveal her name!" He commanded indignantly, gasping in mock shock into the mirror as he glared at it, his eyes forming from slick whisks of sex into a look of dangerous scarlet fury. As he crossed his arms across his chest defiantly, he imagined flames burning within his irises, or moreover his aqua eyes bubbling like that from a volcano erupting from underneath the calm skin of the ocean. "Lips red as the rose, hair black as ebony, skin white as snow-"

"Lady Hummel," said a deep voice behind Kurt as the boy jumped in horror, almost crashing into the mirror as Noah Puckerman's reflection suddenly appeared right behind him. Kurt had thrown his hands out in the midst of the surprise and his fingers had splayed themselves out across the glass like a spider's, yet as soon as he retracted them, his fingerprints remained, hot and warm against its rather cool reflective surface. So warm in fact, that they had yet to disappear, to vanish.

"Actually, its Snow White, but whatever," replied Kurt coldly, not appreciating being ambushed. Ever since moving to Lima, he'd been jumped on more times than any other time in his life, and it didn't seem to be dissipating. Sure, he'd suspected someone would round the corner whilst viewing the bathroom displays before catching sight of him, a 'what the hell is that kid doing?' expression crossing their face, but he'd not anticipated Puckerman coming to play peek a boo with him. God no.

"So this is what you do in your spare time, is it Hummel?" Asked Puckerman casually, roaming his eyes on every mirror around, before bringing his sight back to the one in front of him. By now, both boys were looking at each other's reflection, with Kurt's eyes no longer faking anger from his little role playing sketch from before, but genuinely maddened that what was reflected in his magic mirror was a menace. Chuckling, Puckerman shook his head in derision. "God Hummel, you're so fucking weird."

"Oh and declaring yourself as Captain Slutty McSlut qualifies as an occupation under the norm," Kurt retorted as he crossed his hands over his chest once again whilst his eyes continued to scrutinize the other boy. Yet, at these words, satisfaction seemed to dwindle. There he was at it again. He should have just ignored Puckerman's insult and walked away but he just couldn't do that without lowering himself even further. He was just offending himself and that was depressing.

Puckerman descended into an expression of displeasure and at this, Kurt took it as his signal to leave. Being violently smashed into glass was one of the many ways the jock could deal with him, what with them being in the land of mirrors, but as Kurt turned around slowly, he picked up his cushion and decided to face his foe. "You know what Puckerman, I'm going to be mature about this and ignore you from now on. You don't exist to me. I'm not going to satisfy you with sticking around."

"You're not going anywhere, Gaylinda, you're staying right where you are," ordered Puck as he pushed Kurt right up against the large mirror behind him, placing both his hands on either side of the boy's head like a clamp, ever crushing, ever closing in. The glass felt strong and solid on Kurt's back, but even to him it seemed to quiver, and at this, his hold on his cushion could only tighten. He pulled it flat against his chest for support, for comfort, anything. He didn't at all like where this was going.

He supposed by the predatory look in Puckerman's eyes that he was at the end of his luck trail. Just the way the jock was licking his lips in anticipation proved to Kurt that he wasn't going to be meeting his father at the cash register in one piece. If anything, bits of him would be on the conveyer belt soon enough. "This is how it goes, Hummel. I make your life hell for being a homo and you get to say absolutely nothing about it, except you haven't been playing by the rules have you?"

"Rules? No, there are no rules to this stupid game you insist on playing," Kurt retorted as he brought his eyes from Puckerman's face to the area around him, begging anyone in the vicinity to see what was being done to him and to possibly save him from his peril, but no. No one was coming to his rescue and the only thing now was to pray for mercy, beg that his body wouldn't get mangled and his organs rearranged from the many upcoming countless kicks and punches.

"Oh Hummel, you just don't learn do you?"

"From you? What's there to learn, you're an idiot."

"Nope, you just don't learn."

"The only thing I'm not learning is if you hate me so much, why are you here?" Asked Kurt, finding himself inquiring after something that baffled him. It didn't look as if it had caught Puckerman off guard, but it rendered his expression, especially his eyes, rather calculative. "Aren't you afraid you might turn gay from the fairy dust I apparently might blow in your face? Aren't you afraid that I might try to jump your bones, because if you're not then I praise you. You're not as stupid as you look."

"That's right Hummel, I'm not, but I'm also more observant than I look. I saw you behind the aisle when my family came to see me. You really should learn not to stick your big nose out so far next time," taunted Puck as he smirked at the way Kurt fumed in front of him, his cheeks flushing like two candy apples as his fists clenched around the cushion. Kurt didn't want to stand here, trapped and helpless against a mirror by a boy who was obviously enjoying himself, but he couldn't run away either.

He felt his feet were planted where they were and any escape whether it be ducking under Puckerman's arm and fleeing or spitting in his smug face and then running away could not be executed. He'd only be wrenched by his collar and pushed back against the glass. Smirking, Puckerman continued. "Be careful Hummel, get your cheeks any redder and hotter than they already are and you'll burst into flames. We wouldn't want your oh so precious white as snow skin to burn now would we?"

"Well that's an interesting take on customer service. Maybe I ought to report you to your supervisor."

"You're not going anywhere."

"Puckerman, does your job really entail you to do this? To stalk customers before creeping up on them?"

"No, but when your big nose is in the picture it's good to go that extra mile, don't you think?"

"Just piss off back to your redneck, white trash disjointed bunch of people you call a 'family'. I wouldn't want to deprive them of a son who has nothing better to do but instill fear in others like some psychopathic rodent," snapped Kurt as Puckerman's laughter ceased just as quickly as a firing turret. His smile disappeared and the humor in his eyes fizzled out to reveal him gaping back at Kurt, the smaller boy's mouth hanging open as well at the sudden realization at what he had just said.

There was no doubt about it. What he had uttered had hurt Puckerman. Probably more than calling him a lowlife scum, but Kurt never thought in a million years that he would continue spouting out such poison. It was a side to him that was foreign and to be completely honest, he was starting to hate it. Now, all he could do was watch as the jock's face seemed to crumple, wince almost. Puckerman had lowered his head to the ground as if he were nursing a gunshot wound to the stomach, until finally, hazel eyes rose before Kurt's own, but these hazel orbs were not of a jock, but of someone else - Noah. Kurt was seeing Noah again, yet it did not last long. Noah seemed to disappear in the midst of flames of an upcoming fire.

Fearing for his very life, Kurt speedily ducked under the jock's arm and ran. He ran like nothing else, weaving himself through the bathroom displays and into the bedroom department with his head whipping around for directions to the main entrance. He had to escape, get out of here, save his hide before he was skinned alive and his head mounted on Puck's wall like some hunter's mountain lodge trophy. Hopefully he would escape intact. Yet as he had pelted his way from Puckerman, his feet skidding on the floor, the jock was already bolting after him at running back speed, whipping the air, his agile limbs making quick work of closing down on his escaping prey, his hands preparing themselves for the attack. Kurt didn't stand a chance.

Puck threw himself at Kurt's back, the fair boy screaming in both pain and terror as they landed harshly on one of the more luxurious beds, Kurt's face digging itself into the comforter with enough friction to burn, his body crushing it from the weight of the boy above, crushing him, his rib cage constricting. He was finding it hard to breathe, almost panicking until his body was flipped to face his attacker, grabbing hold of his cushion in defense and repeatedly hitting Puckerman around the head with it, making sure to aim for the face, the eyes, to blind. With an object as soft yet as compact as the cushion he had, the best he could do was attempt to stun the jock into submission. Enough hits could disorient him, have him dizzy. With enough hits.

It was all in vain, however, as Puckerman, growing tired of being hit, grabbed hold of the cushion and threw it aside where it knocked over the side end table lamp and smashed to the floor. The sound of glass breaking had Kurt quick to push the jock back, to shove him aside, to get him away, but it was hopeless. This running back was just too strong. Kurt's arms were half the size in comparison to Puckerman's, half the size everywhere. His body was just this slender twig that could easily be manipulated in brawny hands, tan in color, easily grabbed hold as Kurt's wrists were clamped and forced on either side of a thrashing head, one that writhed in anger with beautiful blue eyes that stared furiously back up at him, Puck, the oppressor.

"Wanna hear a secret Hummel?" Asked Puck as Kurt's eyes offered nothing in return. He didn't want to know some sordid secret this boy had, yet as his eyes narrowed, the jock let out a dark chuckle, thoroughly enjoying how weak he looked right about now. The temptation to further torture Kurt strengthened, so did Puckerman's need to burst the confession from his smirking lips, a confession he knew would roil the boy's insides to no end. "I was the one who kissed you in gym class."

"What?" Gasped Kurt, his eyes widening and cheeks blushing as if he'd just been slapped across the face. Of course it had been Puckerman. Now that Kurt came to think of it, the jock matched the physique of his mystery gym kisser very covincingly. The Letterman jacket he'd grabbed a hold of atop a strong body with broad shoulders and a heavy presence, the lower half of Puckerman's face, the lips, the stubbled chin, and finally, the calloused fingers. Spluttering, Kurt asked, "Why?"

"Why? Believe me Hummel, I didn't mean to kiss you. I didn't even mean to have you as my partner," replied Puckerman, his aggressive facade somewhat melting into one of defense. "Brittany stole the hot Cheerio I wanted, and everyone else had been taken which meant I had no one to work with, except with you. Then I thought, no, this is actually going to be awesome. I mean, there you were blindfolded and I could totally mess you around, but then you grabbed me and kissed me."

"Me?! I would have fallen if I hadn't, and all because you were fondling my lips!"

"I wasn't 'fondling' your lip-"

"You were fondling them, Puckerman! Your thumb was all over them!"

"Yeah well... you've got unnaturally soft lips for a dude!"

"That didn't give you the right to touch them, you feeler, and it didn't give you an excuse to kiss them either!" Retorted Kurt, watching as Puckerman's face weakened. "That first kiss was an accident! It wasn't meant to happen, but you can't say that you didn't give me the second! You kissed me, Puckerman! You grabbed hold of me and you kissed me, and don't say you didn't like it because I know you did. You moaned your way through a fucking terrible kiss like the man whore you are!"

As Puckerman's tight grip on his wrists burned like red hot irons into his skin, a moan of agony escaped Kurt's soft lips, as the jock's hazel eyes lathered him like flies crawling over something sweet and sticky, the way a man's eyes would crawl creepily over a woman in the subway before masturbating in front of her, showing her his shiny-sticky hand. Just sick. Kurt couldn't believe Santana or any one of Puckerman's girls had enjoyed kissing this boy. To him, it had been as if a Venus flytrap had tried to suck him dry. A mouth that had tasted now of bitter almonds, no more tempting than a puddle of fresh vomit, as if Puck's lips had been lathered in poison set to kill him, set to kill him now as without warning, Puckerman's lips were on his.

Kissing on a whole was supposed to be healthy, biology's way of determining who in nature you were most genetically compatible with, with some naming it the 'mate assessment tool. It increased the levels of oxytocin, the body's natural calming chemical and also increased endorphins, the body's feel-good chemicals. Swapping saliva was also noted to increase dopamine, which aided in feelings of romantic attachment. Yet where was the romance? Where was the attachment? Why was there only pain, the taste of blood? Kurt had been quick to assess Puck as an undesirable mate with a firm prediction that if the jock was to carry on like this for the rest of his life, he'd remain alone in a cold bed with an even colder sex life.

The jock was crushing his lips, sucking them raw, a hard pressured bite near the bottom with Kurt's jaw now exhausted, aching as if it had been clamped in Jigsaw's Reverse Bear-Trap only to be ripped apart. His skin was sanded to its bare bones. It felt roughened, coarsened by his broad shouldered attacker, a giant troll who was rubbing his stubbled jaw against his sensitive skin, like spikes they felt, unshaved and grating his skin down to a reddened mess, Kurt's reaction nothing but confusing in Puckerman's eyes. The jock had since pulled away, licking his lips, observing Kurt's throbbing pout before recapturing them only to have the boy moan in anguish yet again. He just didn't get it. What the hell was he doing wrong?

Kurt couldn't do anything. Attacking jock's face wasn't going to work. It was too broadly built. Those cheekbones of his holding it together like a steel structure, such strong bone structure, but down in between the thighs where protection was non existent, vulnerable, Kurt took his chance. As Puckerman's mouth was fixed on his, he lifted, aimed and threw his knee up against the boy's groin causing the jock to remove his lips from his and howl in pain. He keeled over, his hands grasping his crotch as Kurt took this as his chance to escape, launching himself from the bed, making to flee, oh how he was now free, but with a traitorous foot tangling itself in the messed up duvet, he fell, balance lost and toppling hard to the ground.

Pulling himself up, he was just about to make a run for it when a large muscular body landed on him and flipped him over, Puckerman once again pinning him down with Kurt once again squirming, struggling under the harsh grip, aiming yet again for the groin, but it was no use. There was no overpowering the jock and there was no use fighting him. Although Puckerman was still wincing severely from the attack to his crotch, he yet again had the upper hand and Kurt's energy was quickly depleting, his body now unmoving, as if boneless as a doll's just thrown from a high balcony only to smash to the floor, the blue eyes now drooping until closed, flopping, dead. He'd given up. Puckerman could have his lips, he didn't care anymore.

"Hummel... oy, Hummel..."

"Go away."

"Hummel, look at me."

"No."

"Kurt please, will you just open your eyes and look at me," whispered Puckerman callously as Kurt frowned and opened them to see the jock looking around and then back down at him, his eyes suddenly worried, nervous and anxious as if his supervisor were just around the corner or if he was only just now remembering the many cameras in the store. Whatever Puckerman was thinking had suddenly rendered him more self-conscious and Kurt couldn't have prayed for a better time.

Huffing a sigh, Kurt was at least thankful that his thrashing was somewhat postponed, and with seeing this now calmer side of Puckerman, he was able relax under the jock's nope loosening grip. Puckerman didn't appear to be as domineering as before, not as aggressive but moreover passive and as Kurt observed him, the boy lowered his head so that his whisper could only be heard by them and no one else. "What is it… I mean what… why don't you like my kisses?"

"Why are you asking me this, and why, most importantly, do you care?" Kurt asked in return as Puckerman groaned. He removed himself from on top of the boy and released his wrists, leaning against the bed and drawing his knees up as he looked once again at Kurt, who at that point was nursing the skin around his hand with a pained look on his face. "Just stick to kissing girls, Puckerman. You're going to make everyone's life easier if you just stick to girls. What I think doesn't matter."

"It does," replied Puck as Kurt blinked at the sheer bluntness enforced in the tone. He watched as the jock lifted his head out of his knees in which he'd buried it before letting out another groan, this one of deep frustration. "Look, Hummel, up until now, I've never been bad at macking out. I was so confident at it that I didn't need to even think about what I was doing for it to be good for any chick or hot Milf but now, now I don't want to kiss anyone, and it's all your fault."

"What? How is it-"

"You called the kiss we had a 'fuck up', and I haven't kissed anyone since."

"Thank God. No one should have to go what I went through."

"What makes you think you were even good yourself?"

"Was I?" asked Kurt curiously, bringing himself to sit cross legged beside Puckerman as the jock's mouth opened to say something, possibly a 'hell no', but instead, it closed. His eyes darted to the ground; he looked away, his body shifting reluctantly. Kurt didn't know what the reaction was meant to signify but he was smart enough to guess that to some degree, and despite being a noob in all this kissing business, he had been good. Although how, he did not know.

Puckerman at the time had been in control. Kurt had just been along for the bumpy ride, but he supposed it had something to do with his lips, his favorite feature. Always red, thick and full, Gauva scented with a subtle sheen. Good pouts made for natural born kissers and Puckerman had very much fallen under their spell like some lovesick fool. Their softness had enraptured him greatly. Kurt had sensed the pleasure, yet now Puckerman was anything but in pleasure. Kurt's question seemed to still have him at unrest. His left knee was swaying slightly, he was biting his lip and his nostrils were breathing in at a more pronounced rate than before. He looked as if he were about to throw a tantrum, which was partly true.

"That is so not the point! This is my problem!" Retorted Puck, shifting uncomfortably in the wake of Kurt's piercing gaze as he refused to acknowledge that the boy had a fine pair of lips. Cunt-shaped. Damn those lips! Puck snorted to himself as Kurt eyed him with disdain, looking away as the jock kept his gaze on his profile. Having a mouth like that. He guessed it made sense for a cock sucker. Yet had Hummel even sucked a cock? Could he deep-throat? Would he spit or swallow? F-fuck...

Clearing his throat at the inappropriate and deeply unsettling thought, as if he'd just been caught fantasizing about fucking Satan's mistress at Temple, Puck shifted, his cheek's flushing. He didn't want his mind full with that kind of stuff. However, as he pulled himself out from his self-embarrassment, Kurt took this as his queue to leave. The boy made to stand up, but Puck grabbed onto his hand somewhat gently before coaxing him down once again. "What is it now, Puckerman?"

"Please, Hummel... I..." murmured Puckerman, still holding onto Kurt's hand as the pale boy sighed. It did make sense that the jock would now be discouraged after receiving his first scathingly negative review from a kiss. The first criticism of anything was always the hardest bullet to swallow, yet with Puckerman, he was finding it rather difficult to stomach, until he neared him, the jock's eyes awash in hope. "Could you... I mean, would you mind... teaching me to kiss... better maybe?"

"Teach you to… no."

"How about some lessons? Four maybe?"

"How about zero."

"Three?"

"Zero."

"Two?"

"Zero."

"Eight?"

"Puckerman for the love of God, I'm not going to give you lessons on how to kiss. Firstly because nothing would revolt me more and secondly, I simply don't know how to do it myself. I have no experience in this department, okay? Only you," Kurt replied. "Go to Santana or someone who has at least a vague idea of what they're doing but not me. I don't know why you're resorting to me. I'm a boy, Puckerman. A boy who hasn't kissed anyone in his life except for you."

"You've brought this on yourself, Hummel. Either you teach me to kiss or so help me God I will pound you into the ground until you find yourself marching for communism in China," threatened Puckerman, his hopeful eyes now replacing themselves with a much darker tone of hazel. There they darkened and darkened and darkened, but not so much in actual anger, but in a frustration come about from desperation. This was clearly very important to Puckerman. Very important.

However, no matter how bigger of a deal this was to anyone, Kurt now felt forced to help the jock. That's if he didn't want to resemble something raw in a butcher's shop no less and at this point in time he didn't want to worry his father with stories of bullying. With a final sigh, he turned to face Puckerman and reluctantly nodded his head and of course, at this, the jock's eyes lightened considerably, smiling gratefully, a smile Kurt was too pissed to acknowledge. "Thanks Hummel. I'll try to be-"

"No Puckerman, I'm doing this for you, so you listen here, alright," replied Kurt as he got up and started making the ruined bed, smoothing out the creases and patting the lumps flat on the silk quilt before picking up his cushion and looming over Puckerman. "Just come round by my house Tuesday after school and we'll get this over and done with. I'm not doing more than a single lesson with you, one and a half max if you're going to freak out all over me. Understand?"

"Sure," smiled Puckerman. Much to Kurt's annoyance the jock was looking back up at him with a look akin to triumph as he nodded and in that moment, his anger billowed. If Noah Puckerman had thought he'd won over Kurt Hummel, he was sorely mistaken. He wasn't the only one who could play dirty. For all the jock blindly knew, Kurt's upcoming lesson could be nothing more than a puckered death trap. Oh yes, Kurt Hummel was about to get all Poison Ivy on a certain boy's ass.

"Don't think for a second that I'm looking forward to bringing your kissing confidence back because let me tell you this, there is nothing inside you but anger, resentment and bitterness and the sooner I help you out with this narcissistic problem of yours, the better," snapped Kurt, the jock's smile now fading as he found himself drowned in the smaller boy's shadow. "For you, Puckerman, are nothing but an empty shell in a badly-laundered Letterman jacket and a mohawk. Goodbye."


	12. Pucker Up Puckerman

_Kiss, kiss me, say you miss, miss me_  
 _Kiss me love, with heavenly affection  
_ _Hold, hold me close to you, hold me, see me through  
_ _with all your heart's protection…_

It was the following Tuesday afternoon and Kurt was standing in front of the Glee club singing his solo. He was the fourth member performing after Rachel, Artie and Tina, standing with the piano behind him with his arms outstretched on the black gleaming wood, not so much as a support as perhaps a viewer may think, but more of a nonchalant center piece that heightened the boy's affable presence, a sort of cool sophistication only a tuxedo could bring. Everyone seemed to be enjoying his recital or at least exhibited signs of being mildly interested in it, with Mr. Schuester sitting in the corner smiling encouragingly and Brittany swaying from side to side in her seat, her eyes closed as she sank into the beautiful melody.

Raising his hands from the piano behind him, Kurt began gesturing with them, his fingers painting a picture in the air as his arms seemed to flow effortlessly behind them like two porcelain trains. He'd always been told that he'd had the tendency to express himself through his arms and hands, but he'd never brought them to attention when singing. To his father, his hands were flawless. Kurt was flawless, seeming like a real professional. Once every word, every syllable, every note, and every beat was memorized, whether it be whilst he prepared for bed or cooed every morning at his shower head, he was clockwork, the natural instincts puppeteering him with graceful gestures through the first verse and right into the second.

_Thrill, thrill me with your charms_   
_Take me in your arms and make my life perfection_   
_Kiss, kiss me, darling, then kiss me once again_   
_make my dreams come true…_

Brittany gradually opened her eyes like a baby's fresh from sleep and ceased her swaying, her huge smile never leaving her happy face as Kurt walked slowly towards them all, his eyes connecting with everyone else in the room as he sang his heart to them. If she had been perfectly honest, she had been expecting him to sing a rather more modern song, one that may have been a tad more upbeat and not so much on making out, but she found that even though she was very much sure Kurt had never experienced desire for someone to kiss him as strongly as he did now, it didn't matter. It felt real. Kurt's voice wasn't the only part of him doing the talking, but his lips. Oh God, his lips, so soft and puckered, begging for that kiss.

Kurt was bringing all the life and emotion needed to the tune and not overdoing or exaggerating it. He wasn't a 'character' - a 'role'. He must've had the ability to see himself already on the stage, an illusion. This illusion he could control from inside himself. He was controlling how the illusion would be perceived by those in plastic seats in a high school music room. It was enough for Brittany to awe at as Kurt winked at her cheekily before making his way back to the piano but in doing so, removed himself from the door that hadn't been in her line of view. What she saw caused her to break away from the song and stare wide-eyed at the visitor. It was most unusual that he was standing there looking in yet it made perfect sense.

_Kiss me, hold me, take me, thrill me, kiss me_ _  
This is the moment, oh thrill me…_

Puckerman was standing on the other side of the door, looking into the room through the strip of glass in it's paneling and staring at Kurt who had now pulled himself up to lie on the piano, his head supported by an arm while his other stroked the wood with a finger. The pale boy looked as if he were so at ease, that he knew exactly who he was performing to, but he didn't, that was the problem. Looking around discreetly, Brittany shifted her head to everyone else in the room, but by their engaged attentions, they had not noticed Puckerman. Every single set of eyes was locked on the singing boy and as Brittany tried to refocus on his singing, tried to get back into it, she was constantly distracted by the jock's presence.

If it had been anyone else she would have been extremely agitated, for this was a damn good performance, but as it was Puckerman and to know that he was gazing upon Kurt no less, her anger softened to bear a smile that only she could understand, no other. She wished to see the jock's face, wished to see it pulled into an expression of something, but what with the reflective glass in the way, she couldn't. Brief flickers of emotion in Puckerman's eyes was all she was afforded. The wonderment that Kurt was so easily melting a song like smooth toffee cream into all their ears, as well as the awe that he was entertaining them all, someone he was picking on but who was still able to shine like a fiery beacon. It was all there.

_Thrill me, thrill me, take me, take me_  
 _And make my life perfection_  
 _Take me, darling don't forsake me_  
 _Kiss me, hold me tight, love me, love me tonight…_

"Why is Puckerman standing there?" Mercedes' voice was loud as she suddenly noticed the mohawked boy's presence by the door. Brittany winced as the pianist ceased to play and everyone's heads turned in unison like a lighting flash to the door where the jock was standing. The blonde took in a breath as she observed Puck's face morph from an expression of admiration to one of fear as he became aware of everyone staring at him curiously, their gazes full with aberrance.

Puck hadn't meant to get caught or eavesdrop, but as he had decided to skip his math period much preferring to sleep in the nurses' office, the sound of Kurt's voice had wafted from under the door and into the hall. The jock had, of course, heard his voice before but it was just so unique that one couldn't help but pay attention to it, and he really was no exception. When he had poked his head through the glass, Kurt had been so in his element, judging by the way he had carried himself as if he was on air, singing of kissing, singing of being taken with those neon lips and cunt-shaped mouth, but as soon as Puck's cover had been blown by that black diva chick, the air had disappeared to reveal wide blue eyes looking right back at him.

Kurt looked on as he had turned to face the door. He looked on to see Puckerman now glancing at everyone through the glass like a deer caught in the headlights, until the jock finally came to settle his unsure gaze on him. Yet as soon as he did, Puckerman's doubt vanished, as if Kurt's eyes were the only familiar set of eyes in a crowd of people he didn't know. Familiar, comfortable, and close. The jock had come to listen to him sing and maybe if they hadn't had the history they had had together Kurt would have been happy to invite him in, to direct him to a seat in the front row and for him to hear a one to one personal burning desire of his to be heard through song, but it was Puckerman, a boy to be aware of.

With that, Kurt's eyebrows furrowed as he stared Puckerman down. He rejected the jock's sense of familiarity, he left him to feel alienated and alone in the wake of eyes that did not look upon him with kindness, and so within the next second flat, Puckerman had stumbled back nervously, pulled his eyes away from Kurt's and vanished. Gone. The pale boy continued looking at the door, his eyes staring at the now empty glass until he was brought out of his trance by the whispering now circulating in the room. Mr. Schuester had gone to talk to the pianist and everyone had got closer together to whisper their thoughts on the odd event that had occurred, all except for Brittany who was looking back at him apologetically.

Kurt made to nod, as if the whole thing wasn't worth mentioning, that he was fine, and that at least before he'd been interrupted, he'd done well. Yet even as he did, Brittany continued to fix him with an expression that knew he'd been affected, that had knowledge of what was really going on, but she didn't know what was going on did she? It wasn't as if she was aware of what was going on between him and Puckerman. She wasn't privy to the fact that the boy had been the one to kiss him in the gym, the fact that Puckerman had looked as if he had wanted to kiss him in the corridor, the fact that he had criticized Puckerman on his abysmal kissing skills or the fact that he was being forced into teaching him how to kiss.

It's not as if Brittany knew any of these things, but then again the blonde wasn't so much of an extrovert as a she was an introvert inside. She didn't pick up on the obvious, just the very discreet, and at that thought, Kurt began to squirm under her gaze. She knew, didn't she, Kurt shifting as he bit his lip nervously. She may not have known about his and Puckerman's arrangement, but she knew the jock had kissed him. After all, he now recalled Brittany being there in that gym class. She hadn't been standing alongside him and the set of people who had been blindfolded, which meant that she'd had plenty of time to see what Puckerman had done, but then, why had she hidden it from him? Why hadn't she said anything?

Even though Kurt hadn't finished his song, his applause and set of positive feedback was duly awarded to him and he was allowed to return to his seat. Sinking slowly back into his chair, he rested his hands on his thighs and stared down at the floor in deep thought. The whispering had subsided somewhat with now the only odd fleeting comment here and there and before too long, Mr. Schuester had come up to direct Quinn to where she ought to stand for her solo. She handed over the piano accompaniment to the pianist, stated the key she wished to have it played in, before returning to the center of the room and looking out over everyone with her hands by her sides, a beautiful smile gracing her lovely face.

However, despite being on the Cheerios and being used to performing in front of others, the blonde still appeared a little shy. Kurt supposed she'd never sung that often in front of others, and as she began to sing, he noticed how she was indeed nervous by the quivers of her notes. She didn't possess a particularly loud or powerful voice that could carry itself beyond many rows of seats if they had been in the auditorium, but there was a delicacy about it, a gossameriness that he liked listening to. With a thought suddenly rising to attention, Kurt could actually see her with Puckerman. Yet that was odd. Why was he thinking that? Maybe he saw them together. His mind certainly did. Maybe she would be able to… tame him.

Snapping himself out of his strange thoughts, Kurt managed to catch the final chorus of Quinn's pleasant but rather short rendition of Kylie Minogue's 'Flower', no euphemism intended. Applause rang out and she curtsied in front of them, coming back up and making her way over to the seat beside Kurt instead of the seat she'd been in beforehand. Turning to look at her, Kurt could see it in that moment. If Puckerman had a girl unlike Santana, a sweet girl who could soften his gangster-like heart into something cooler and less turbulent then maybe Kurt wouldn't be at the brunt of his attacks as much. Maybe that same girl could teach Puckerman how to kiss instead of Kurt. Maybe she'd help him out with anything at all.

Quinn could be that girl and although she had claimed that she hated Puckerman for his insensitive attitude towards others, especially his treatment of Kurt, there was no missing the glances she sometimes shot him, glances that were obvious to the naked eye that she found him at least physically attractive - his carved build that was strong and buff with arms that would be her castle to a throne room of a heart, that sexy swagger motored by a powerhouse of hip muscles fully pumped for thrusting and finally that smirk that was the first step to it all, to a set of libidinous events that had Quinn fantasizing about tanned skin, touching herself to masculine, sweating tanned skin. Yes, Kurt had noticed. He'd noticed everything.

This was perfect, Kurt smiling as he brought his eyes out to the front. This was his ticket to finally get rid of Puckerman and if he managed to lure and persuade Quinn into thinking on the same wavelength as him, it was going to work to everyone's advantage. Except, how was he going to prove to her that Puckerman was capable of change? That he could be so much more than just eye candy? That was going to be a challenge because, as far as he knew, the jock was still really the same: an abusive, womanizing, mohawked buffoon. He was still the boy McKinley knew him to be and of course, if Kurt wanted this to change, he was going to have to deal with Puckerman himself. No one else was going to do it for him.

If the jock was going to force Kurt into these ridiculous sessions then he might as well get something out of it too, except for practicing his kissing skills. Kurt was going to have to mold the boy into someone more pliable, to dispose of Puck and bring forth Noah, and all of this had to be done without either Puckerman or Quinn noticing. It was going to be a challenge. Puckerman could be very attentive, observant and aware of his surroundings, yet if Kurt were to kiss his brains out, the jock would become oblivious to everything. As for Quinn, she was smart; she could catch onto the fact that Kurt was playing her Fairy Godfather or Sergeant Matchmaker in all this, yet if she was kept at a distance, her suspicions wouldn't arise.

After Mr. Schuester dismissed them all, praising those who'd all performed very well that day and saying that the remaining members had to perform their songs on Thursday, Kurt made his way out of the choir room and towards his locker. He was now going to have to drive home and teach Puckerman how to kiss and to say he'd rather dance to music, play The Sims 3 or draw even would have been a possibility he would much rather have committed to. Come to think of it, he hadn't given his address to the jock, nor had he given his number to him or even added him as a friend on Facebook. He had no contact with Puckerman and Kurt couldn't guess if that was supposed to be a good or bad thing, given the circumstances.

In all honesty, he was starting to pray that the jock had forgotten about the session, that maybe he'd come to his senses and ditched the idea in favor of chasing after some Cheerio before sticking a hand up her skirt, that he'd wished to get totally hammered before ordering an inordinate amount of pizzas to feast on or to even go and destroy a bunch of nerds and geeks by the bus stop before dumping their bespectacled corpses in the nearest dumpster ready for pickup next morning, but as Kurt shut his locker and found Puckerman right there, leaning on the set of neighboring lockers with his school bag over his shoulder and an expectant look accompanied by a snide glint his eye, he knew that God wasn't going to grant his one wish.

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

The basement bedroom lights rose to attention as the bedroom door opened. The golden tinted hue of the inbuilt lights in the ceiling cast a rather homely glow in its wake and as Kurt led the way down, he deposited his bag and jacket by his desk, laid the outer garment on the chair and swiveled around to see Puckerman descend the last few set of steps, those athletic hands buried almost shyly in his jean pockets, wide hazel eyes darting around taking everything in, like a puppy fresh from the pound as it discovered its new home. Kurt decided not to say anything. It felt as though one loud movement could spook Puckerman, make him jump, so he settled on watching him, taking in invisible mannerisms and habits he'd not noticed before.

The drive here had been for the most part, silent, with Puckerman having first inquired after his gas-guzzling Navigator, having looked over it with awe, believing it to be too big for Kurt, like a child given too expensive a toy to play with, yet Kurt played with it well, drove it like the smooth ride it was, treating his 'baby,' as if it was his baby. The insides were leather lined in cream shade, so spacious and comfortable, they could have had their lesson in the backseat if they'd wanted but no such idea was proposed within the silence that had nobody talking except for the man on the radio. Just a voice of noise to them as Kurt had driven quietly, feeling those hazel eyes on him, yet not in a rapacious way, just the luxury of a look, inquisitive.

The Macbook Air was on his bed, soon flipped open with the tab 'How to Kiss' appearing on the screen. Kurt had diligently spent all last night reading up it, eventually capturing his interest, the technique behind the art of kissing, for it was an art, the way to coordinate the many muscles in the mouth, learning of the vast collection of kisses out there, ones he'd heard of, 'The French kiss' and the 'Single lip kiss' to kisses unknown to him, the 'Butterfly kiss' and the 'Spiderman Kiss'. Every single kiss that had been covered in the films and in the novels, as well as many pornographic movies, he had had to get to know and all because Puckerman was having a narcissistic crisis that really ought to have had nothing to do with him, but did.

Reading about it was as far as Kurt could go. It's not as if he had anyone at the time to practice with and he wasn't about to borrow a mannequin head form the local bride store in town, no way. He had to use Puckerman, who had since left his position by the stairs to make his way around the room, his hand outstretched, picking up, checking and putting down small objects as if was a cousin going about his room, inspecting Kurt's fragrance bottle to his stuffed Teddy Bear head he'd bought at a flea market. The jock's fingers stroked every surface whether is was the cool glass of the end tables or the silk from the bed's quilt, everything was paid attention, now attempting to memorize the feeling, the many textures, the lingering essence.

"So… uh… should we like… start kissing," asked Puckerman as Kurt frowned back up at him. Why was the jock so nervous? For heaven's sake, he was the one who wanted this. He was the one who wanted to learn to kiss; the least he could do was exhibit a little more confidence that was becoming of him. Turning the Macbook towards Puckerman, Kurt watched as the jock leaned down before swiftly bringing his head back up. "Could you read what it says? On the screen there?"

"Why? Can't you read it yourself?" Kurt asked, brows deepening as Puckerman lifted his hand rather quickly to scratch at the back of his head, a habit commonly associated with discomfort. Thoughts whirring through his head to one conclusion, Kurt rolled his eyes and huffed in irritation. If the jock was afraid of coming near him in case he caught the 'gay', what the hell were they doing? What the hell was this? Puckerman had enrolled himself in this little charade; it was his job to get out.

However, as the jock trailed his hand over his Mohawk, rubbing his palm over the hair with so much force it looked as if he were about to set fire to it, Puckerman eventually ceased as he took in the look on Kurt's face. As if like a scolded child, he brought his hand down and along with the other, buried it into his pockets as the pale boy offered a suggestion, his tone cold and sharp. "I can increase the brightness if that'll help you or I can try to maximize the screen if you can't see it properly."

"No, it's just I… I have shitty eyesight, okay? I have really bad depth perception," admitted Puckerman, turning away and scuffing the rug with his feet as Kurt's frosty comportment ebbed away in favor of surprise, a pang of guilt, but above all relief. Sure, he'd been taken aback by the news, along with remorse that he'd got rather short with the jock, but he was mostly glad that Puckerman hadn't been getting all falsely hygienic over his sexuality. It wouldn't have made sense.

Now however, Kurt pondered poor vision and depth perception as genuine hindrances to kissing. Perhaps sufferers had to work that much harder relying on their sense of touch even though sight wasn't that greater factor in the process what with eyes being closed during the act. This was all starting to become rather interesting but before he could continue, Puckerman turned around and spoke. "It would just be easier for the both of us if you just read whatever you have on the screen there."

"If you say your eyesight is as bad as you say it is, why are you on the football team? Don't you need good sight for a sport like that?" He inquired as the jock turned to face him only to shrug and look away. Kurt was hoping for some kind of justified response more evolved that that, and as Puckerman walked around the room, his hazel eyes wandering over the many inbuilt wardrobe doors in the wall, Kurt tried again. "Do you at least have decent peripheral vision? Color blindness at all?"

"No, but my peripheral vision's not that much better than my depth perception. They both kinda suck," replied Puckerman civilly, opening one of Kurt's closets and scouring its insides, before retracting his head and closing the doors. That had been a discovery. Kurt's rather unostentatious wardrobe contained nothing within that belonged in the Liberace House of Crap, but rather stylish pieces of a simple nature. Pastel and pale, soft and fresh, all a diaphanous second skin to Kurt's delicate frame.

"I wear contacts so that I don't have to wear dweeby glasses in public, but I had to take them out after school today because they were hurting my eyes," continued the jock, gesturing vaguely to his eyes in a somewhat insecure manner. "I don't know what's wrong with them but I'm going to have to go back to the opticians, have them check 'em out. I mean, no way are my eyes going to fuck up my life even further by turning me into some four-eyed geek. It'd totally ruin my rep."

"Well do you have your glasses with you now?" Asked Kurt, taking in every single twitch of expression that appeared across Puckerman's face. It was evident the jock indeed had them with him, but he just didn't want to show them. Emulating the looks of the 'dweebs' he bothered at school would only render someone like him hypercritical, and what with learning how to kiss for someone of his school stature, it would again only render the line between him and them that much finer.

At these set of thoughts, Kurt couldn't help but try to picture Puckerman in glasses. It some ways he could see the jock in Hipster specs, specs that gave off a cool indie look, but not so much in regular glasses. It definitely would be something to see, yet Puckerman still seemed rather hesitant. Maybe it was just as well. Kissing with glasses might have been trickier. "Okay, um, look Puckerman, maybe we should do this another time. Perhaps when you actually have your contacts with yo-"

"No, we're doing this now. I want to do this today," replied Puckerman firmly, snapping himself out of his phase of equivocation before marching determinately back towards the bed and plonking himself near the foot of the duvet. After he'd settled himself once Kurt had made room for him, he pulled out - now without much hesitation - a rather smart charcoal shaded glasses case from inside his Letterman jacket pocket in the wake of a small smile widening on the pale boy's lips.

He'd thought Puckerman wouldn't be as yet comfortable to do this around him, yet as Kurt watched the jock who got a high from tormenting others, the jock who supposedly could lift objects to rival Tarzan himself and the jock who could arouse a girl so fast she'd have to change her sopping wet underwear within the next second, pull out a simple set of black-rimmed glasses from the case and slide them on, he was proven wrong. "What? Quit staring at me Hummel or I'll break your nose!"

"Oh yeah, like my lips are going to look real attractive covered in blood. Talk about natural lipstick gone wrong," replied Kurt flatly as Puckerman let out a sigh, his eyes now making easier work of making out what was on the laptop screen before raising his sight once again to the pale boy. Now it was Kurt's turn to stare as the jock's hands fidgeted, his fingers whisking amongst themselves in now another nervous habit the brunet had seen today. They just seemed to be counting.

However, sensing Puckerman's increasing discomfort, Kurt relented his staring before shuffling closer to the jock as well as bringing the laptop along with him. They'd have to be close for this to work. They didn't want anything going wrong again and having Kurt later having to drink a liter of water before finishing off a tin of Vaseline in one go, an aftermath Kurt thought best not to reveal to an already sensitive jock. "Anyway, so I've done my research and I have an idea why you may be going wrong."

"Okay. What is it?"

"You lose control of your lips, you know? You're letting them get away with you."

"Oh, does that also include the-"

"The mouth, tongue, teeth all of it. They all came down on me like a siege."

"Christ. Okay, um... God," whispered Puckerman to himself, shifting on the bed and repositioning his glasses so he could look at the laptop in more detail. Kurt had brought up, in his opinion, a very useful site stocked full to the brim with pictures, videos and explanations about the ideal way to master and practice with your partner, the perfect way to kiss from just a feather-like touch to raw passion. "So how do we fix this? Are we going to go through all of these?"

"Well it's up to you. We can either work through them all from the basic kisses to the more difficult ones, you know, start you off from scratch or we can pick and choose the kisses that would be more beneficial or favorable to you instead of going through every single one, because trust me, some are pretty weird," replied Kurt, smiling slightly bitterly as he recalled coming across kisses that sometimes had absolutely nothing to do with the lips, yet held within them their own erotic value.

"Could we go from scratch? I just don't think I'm good enough to start picking and choosing the ones I want to do," suggested Puckerman, looking over at Kurt as if he feared the boy wouldn't have the patience, however Kurt simply nodded. The boy knew what it was it was like having to run before he could walk. Being a Cheerio could attest to that. Thank God for Quinn and Brittany, smiled Kurt as Puckeman smiled appreciatively. "So, what am I doing wrong before we actually start."

"Well, it's just that you rush, and when that happens you lose coordination of what you're doing. There's no real sense of direction, it's all off, it's all over place," explained Kurt, trying to be as detailed and as thorough as he could, choosing his words wisely that would best put across what he had experienced. "So what you need to do is slow down, you know, relax your face, ease your jaw and calm yourself. Only then will everything else follow like your mouth and your tongue."

"Slow down, got it," nodded Puckerman, engraving the advice right into his mind before returning all his attention to Kurt. The pale boy had since scrolled down to a particular kiss named the 'peck kiss' and was at the moment brushing up on what it entailed, quickly scanning its description before straitening back up and facing Puckerman once again. The jock likewise removed his glasses from his face, folded them up and placed them beside him, his vision now altered without them on.

"Okay, I think we'll start with the 'peck kiss'. It's the simplest kiss out there so I don't think we'll have too much trouble with it," began Kurt, bringing his eyes away from the screen as he shuffled closer to Puckerman, his knees coming up to almost brush up against the jock's larger leg. "What you need to know is that this kiss is quick and closed-mouthed. It's often used in a social environment as a sign of friendship or affection and it can be either on the cheek or on the lips, like so."

Leaning his body forwards, Kurt neared Puckerman, but ceased to go any further when he noticed the jock had yet to move. It was as if he needed a clear sign of approval to be allowed to near Kurt's lips again after he'd had a past of going for them without permission, or that the lips that seemed to detest him were now enticing him in for a kiss. As a result, the pale boy felt rather silly. His lips were slightly puckered, being offered like a sweet treat, yet they were left bare and without contact. It wasn't until he'd gestured in exasperation with his hand for the jock to also lean in, that Puckerman let out a nervous breath before they both entered each other's personal space, aimed and angled their faces until their lips met. Touchdown. Contact.

During the kiss, Kurt was once again reacquainted with the taste of Puckerman's lips and mouth. They didn't taste much of anything, maybe a slight hint of honey and sugared waffles, a likeness to Little Debbie's Honey Buns but fried and sweetened at the same time. It was hard to tell. His nose was similarly hit with an efflux of pleasant masculine body odor wafting up from the jock's now gaping tee shirt neckline, enveloping his senses even more as the attention now switched. For Puck, Kurt tasted a cross between a Fluffernutter on Wonderbread and warm apple compote with just a hint of rhubarb. Don't ask him why or how. It was just the strangest yet the most addictive thing ever, a brunch like snack until dinnertime that evening.

However, the tasting didn't last long. It wasn't meant to and after around two or three-seconds, Kurt pulled away, nodding in approval as Puckerman responded in a somewhat odd fashion. He was licking his lips as if he were trying to savor the taste of the brunet's mouth on his, as if he wanted to save the taste of marshmallow fluff and peanut butter on classic white bread, which he did. Kurt in turn, decided to ignore it in favor of leaning over across his bed, retrieving a Vaseline lip care tin from the first draw and bringing it over. Some of the kisses required some kind of lip balm to decrease friction and besides, they couldn't get to the more complicated kisses if their lips were going to be a tad dry. It wouldn't offer a lot of lubrication.

"How was that? Was… that any good?" Puckerman asked apprehensively as he watched Kurt lather a small amount of Vaseline onto his lips before putting the tin down on the bed. In response, the boy nodded curtly, keeping firm eye contact with the jock so as to let him know he was not lying, which he wasn't. Kurt was telling the truth and he'd had no problem letting the jock in on that fact. It brought him pleasure to bestow news that evidently meant a lot to Puckerman.

Meanwhile, as Kurt returned to look at the screen, Puck sighed in relief. It was as if a weight had been lifted already, and all from just one-peck kiss, just a kiss that small. It wouldn't be considered much to many, or if anything, but it was enough for the jock to almost lean on the bedpost behind him with his arms behind his head and a satisfied smirk playing on his lips, lips that now lingered with the taste of Kurt, not that he minded. He shifted his position on the bed and once again felt his leg stroke Kurt's knee, causing the brunet to look back around at him guardedly. However, they both brushed it off as nothing as Kurt eventually finished scrolling down the page until he came upon the next kiss, its picture appearing on the screen.

This one, the Lip Gloss kiss, appeared to be more intimate than the peck kiss, which hadn't admittedly been all that difficult to do and judging by the accompanying illustration it didn't look any different from the average kiss. Yet as Puck leaned forward to squint at the small print, he soon gave up in favor of picking up his glasses and going in for a clearer look. As soon as his hand landed on his specs, however, a paler hand landed on his arm. He looked up to see Kurt eying him with a sympathetic look that understood wearing glasses rendered him even more self-conscious than he already was, and in response Puck could only return the gesture with an appreciative smile as he put down the specs and refocused his attention on Kurt.

"Okay, the Lip Gloss kiss. I didn't really want to go over this one but I suggest we do because you're bound to come across a girl who's wearing mountains of it, especially in high school. Lip gloss in huge with teenage girls and it can be quite tricky to avoid being drowned in cherry-flavored goo," he explained rather sarcastically, Puckerman letting out a deep chuckle as Kurt abruptly stopped scanning the screen to look over at him, his blue orbs wide with puzzlement and surprise.

By the looks of it, Puckerman was admiring him with friendly eyes, the very same eyes that had looked upon Kurt at the fancy dress store in the mall. They gave out a warmth that could heat any barrier to heat the core within, a signature trait that Kurt attributed to only one other person he knew - Noah. Noah was here. "Now, unfortunately, I don't have any lip gloss on me because I don't wear the stuff, only Vaseline which basically has the same consistency but doesn't taste like artificial crap."

"Yeah, I can tell because your lips are all shiny and... good looking," Puckerman complimented as he gestured to Kurt's lips, some of the light from above reflecting of the glossy coat. Smiling, the pale boy was about to thank him but as the jock made to lean in and kiss him, it was Kurt's turn to not reciprocate. He pressed a finger to Puckerman's lips with his smile widening as he took in the look of confusion on the jock's features. "What is it, Hummel? I haven't started kissing you yet."

"I've yet to explain what you have to do, Puckerman. It's promising to see your enthusiasm because it will definitely speed things along, but it's best if I let you know how to do it," explained Kurt, watching how the mocha brown pigments in Puckerman's skin danced into a shade of dark rose as the jock swore lightly down at the comforter before letting out a breath of amusement. However, Kurt didn't mind. He found it flattering, funny and sweet. Yep, the air was definitely changing.

"Now from what I gather, this type of kiss is supposed to be fun and flirty," began Kurt, cringing at the use of such cheesy language used to describe a rather childish kiss. He supposed it made sense. "Your girlfriend is supposed to coat on lip gloss or chapstick, rub their lips against yours until your lips are coated as well and if you want to be extra daring, you can use… wait for it… flavored, fruity lip gloss! That's right! Now you can get one of your five a day just by kissing someone else!"

Puckerman burst out laughing, his head flipping back in hilarity as Kurt giggled at the boy's explosive sign of amusement. He took in how when the jock genuinely smiled, it was as if it brought a whole new angle to his face, a whole new undiscovered dimension of his features that were like signature traits of Noah. There was also something about the way he moved his body. Movement was not put on; there was no show, no sense of display, just freedom in skin. In the end, Kurt's humor had not only exposed such characteristics, but it had done them good to let themselves go and once the jock's laughter had subsided, Puckerman shook his head, a light chuckle on his smiling lips before they both positioned themselves for the kiss.

As their lips met, it was instantly noted by both that this kiss was better. Due to the light coat of Vaseline on Kurt's lips, they glided over Puckerman's pout, covering them with the soothing jelly until both of their mouths were lubricated. However, something was different. It felt as though Puckerman's lips were wider and the longer they remained connected, the wider they became, until as Kurt pulled away, his eyes curious, he was proven right. A soft smile had graced the jock's pink lips, his expression oozing with satisfaction even after Kurt had pulled away, whilst he'd continued to lean in an attempt to prolong the kiss, causing him to lose balance and quickly whip out his hand on the bed for support, lest he land flat on his face.

"Well, you're doing well, Puckerman. You haven't screwed up once," assured Kurt light heartedly as he flashed a smile at the jock, a smile that was just as eagerly returned accompanied with a hint of pride. Turning to face his laptop once more, the brunet flicked down to the next kiss, The Single-Lip kiss which, from the description did look a little trickier than the other two, but he was willing to give it a try since his tanned kissing partner hadn't as yet suctioned his face off.

However, as he continued to scan the article, his eyes flittered down at the time at the bottom right-hand side of the screen, as if like a warning and at this, Kurt gasped as it neared the hour. Their time was almost up. He would only be able to fit another kiss in before his father was due to return so without hesitation he turned to Puckerman, who was in the middle of licking the Vaseline off his lips. "Puckerman, will you stop eating the Vaseline. It's unflavored petroleum jelly."

"Sorry."

"Anyway, next we have the Single-Lip Kiss, okay?"

"Okay."

"This one is going to be harder so you are going to have to be more careful."

"How much more careful? What do I have to do exactly?" Asked Puckerman somewhat casually yet as he took in the rather anxious streaks of light in Kurt's eyes, he frowned. He wanted to ask the boy what was up, whether anything was wrong, but it didn't look as if Kurt was in the mood to be asked such a question. Instead, he peered at the large picture on the screen whilst trying to ignore the brunet's minor restlessness and edge. "Do I only kiss one of your lips or what?"

"Essentially yes, but there's more to it than that," replied Kurt, Puckerman pulling away from the screen as the boy began to explain. Kurt had personally not encountered this kiss very often. In fact, he didn't believe it was very well known seeing as kissing two lips instead of one doubled the fun. However, since it was for Puckerman, Kurt suspected that the jock wished to have a whole library of kisses at the tip of his lips so as to further please his girls and their sexually-aroused mothers.

"Alright, to give someone a kiss like this, all you need to do is take one of their lips between yours and gently suck or tug on it, whichever one you prefer," began Kurt, catching the two options circling each other in Puckerman's hazel vaults as if contemplating which would be more relishable. "It's supposed to be romantic and if done correctly can lead the girl or whoever you're kissing to experience a certain state of mind where she believes her knees are going to give way."

"Should we do this standing up then? We could use the outcome of you either falling or not to judge if I've done it right," suggested Puckerman as Kurt paused to think about the proposition. He doubted very much that his knees would give way. The jock was a bare beginner, a mere novice; however, it was good to see him exhibiting confidence. Kurt just feared the ultimate outcome - that he wouldn't fall, resulting in all that Puckerman self-esteem to come crashing down once again.

"Oh and don't worry Hummel, I'll catch you if you fall," smirked Puckerman, Kurt smiling appreciatively back as they hopped off the bed and into the center of the room. There the jock removed his Letterman jacket to reveal an unkempt white sleeveless tee-shirt underneath as well as those impressive 'guns' that were due to 'catch' Kurt if he'd fall. Well, at least they looked strong enough. "Stop me if I suck or tug too hard, okay Hummel? I don't want to rip your lip off or something."

"Just keep those arms prepared, alright. I might fall if I pass out from the pain," joked Kurt, smiling. It was meant as a light-hearted and funny comment, but judging by the struck expression on Puckerman's face that also conveyed a trace of hurt, he knew he'd carelessly struck a nerve. Frustrated by his own poor choice in vocabulary that had hit the jock's sore spot right on, Kurt stepped forward until his feet met Puckerman's toes, lifted his head up and offered his lips ripe for the taking.

Puckerman, taking the hint, lowered his face to Kurt's and let his mouth gently land on his plump bottom lip. However, he'd not even begun sucking before Kurt felt the jock's lips quiver with nerves, the vibrations rattling his own pout which, in the end, ruined it. Pulling away from the boy and eying him with a soft look that he hoped would ease Puckerman's fretting anxiety, Kurt spoke quietly. "Puckerman, relax, breathe. You've been doing well, there's no need for you to worry like this."

"Sorry, I'm just… It's just your comment threw me off a bit and now I'm freaked out I'm gonna fuck it up and… and you're gonna say I suck at this an-" mumbled Puckerman as he stared at the ground, his eyes finding the flag of their nation now extremely interesting, but before he could finish his stumbled mess of a sentence, Kurt had brought his lips to his, melting now muffled words back down the jock's throat in a simple plan to make him shut up and as predicted, it worked.

Grateful for Kurt's quick thinking, Puck lowered his lips to the brunet's bottom lip and as softly as he could, moulded his mouth around it. He began ever so tenderly tugging it, treating it as if the boy's satin soft lips were made of the finest silk or even the most luxurious Egyptian cotton. It was certainly a strange matter, comparing Kurt's pout with expensive materials but that's how Puck now treated Kurt when they kissed, as if he was a delicate porcelain doll, one false move and he would crack. His hands had also been uselessly planted by his side at first but no longer had he realized this then he'd awkwardly weaved them around the slender hips in front of him as if he were a young teen slow dancing at a school disco.

Finally pulling away from Puckerman, Kurt retracted his lips as the jock followed suit, yet only to see Puckerman frowning right back at him. To the jock, Kurt hadn't felt as if he was going to fall, tumble over or anything. He had stayed very much upright and steady for the whole duration of the kiss, not a sway out of balance and keeping perfect stance and posture throughout. Yet all this was now wreaking havoc on Puckerman's fortitude, undermining it with doubt. If he wasn't able to make the gay kid weak at the knees, his chances with any chick in school was pretty much fucked. Bad kissers made for bad everything else. If he couldn't do shit with his lips and mouth, what on earth what they going to think his dick was going to do? Fuck.

Meanwhile, Kurt was looking down at this feet as he'd since brought a finger up to trace where Puckerman had sucked and tugged at his lip as if he were one from a newborn baby, so soft, so incredibly soft. The jock had done everything that he'd been told to do and had more importantly got it right, but like the brunet had predicted, he'd not fallen into Kurt-shaped goo on the floor. His knees had remained stable and fixed throughout, with Puckerman's hands on his hips acting as further supports to an already well-grounded structure, leading Kurt to arrive to the conclusion that one only fell if one had feelings for their partner. Believing in his theory, no wonder he hadn't budged an inch. He had no feelings for Puckerman.

"Wow, I really suck at this," murmured Puckerman dismally, stepping away from Kurt as he picked up his Letterman jacket and tugged it on. His arms hung heavily by his sides, he bit his lip and a frustrated exhale of breath steamed out from his flared nostrils. "I just can't believe that all those chicks were faking it. They had to get all sensitive and shit and think of my feelings. Fuck my fucking feelings; I could have made it better for them! God damn it, I could have if they'd only not been scared of me!"

Girls were scared of Puckerman? That was odd. Apart from the fact that due to the jock's formidable build and tyrannical status in school, a sense of intimidation could most understandably arise, Kurt would have thought the last people you'd want to seep fear into were the ones you wanted to do the nasty with as he continued to listen. "All they needed to do was tell me to make it better. That's all they needed to do. Is that so hard? Now I'm here and... I can't even make you sway just a little."

"Puckerman, you have to remember, I'm a boy. I'm... let's say sturdier than the girls that you've kissed in the past," explained Kurt, cautiously nearing Puckerman as the jock began to fasten up his jacket with frustrated fingers too enraged to actually connect any buttons. Their allotted lesson time was over, but there was something in Kurt that wished them to end this session on a good note, rather than one that would have Puckerman leaving with an ego even more bruised than before.

As a result, Kurt tried to think of at least something to say that would offer the jock some comfort, some reassurance that he was progressing well, yet as Puckerman eventually let out a growl that dissipated into a sigh of provocation, his hands faltering to his sides with his shoulders slumping and downcast, Kurt went ahead. "Plus Puckerman, everyone you've been with has been attracted to you whereas me, not so much. I'm just not really into you. I don't see you in that way."

"You don't?"

"You didn't think I did, did you?"

"Kinda, yeah."

"Why would you think that?"

At this, Puck opened his mouth to answer, but closed it as he looked away. Why had he thought that? Why had he assumed Kurt would be into his looks? To be honest, he had always thought himself to be easy on the eyes and he'd never once had any problem with his image, though now knowing that the first openly gay person he'd ever met in his life didn't think he was all that had him stumped. He now felt pressured to work out more, as well as deepen his tan, anything to reinstate his sex appeal. Kurt was tearing down his ego with every personal revelation. 'Bad kisser', 'Not attracted to you'. All of this was only highlighting a certain foreign feeling of physical insecurity within him that he felt needed the most attention, needed healing.

"Hold on," began Puckerman, stepping back only to peel off his jacket and wife beater with enough speed and force, Kurt was sure he'd heard the latter tear, as if those 'guns' had meant it rip apart, to expose, to show off, the jock before him once again, breathing hard, with Kurt's baby blue eyes shocked as the most sculpted chest he'd ever seen on a teenage boy in his life stopped mere inches from him. "Are you saying you don't like this? You don't even want to, I don't know, touch it maybe?"

"Puckerman, put your clothes back on. This is unnecessary and inappropriate," Kurt protested, alleviating the space between them only to have it recaptured once again, with Puckerman now closer, watching him, taking hold of his fair hand and placing it on his chest. Kurt's eyes had since averted themselves only to widen as his fingers were directed into grooves, roaming a hard, compact body, so broad, with it now voicing, rich, "Look at me, Kurt," with Kurt now looking, surrendering to the sight.

It was a nice chest. In fact, it was very nice indeed. A pantheon of muscle one could say that rivaled even the marble statues of Greece. Starting at the top was Puckerman's impressive thick neck and protruding Adam's apple set atop broad shoulders with significant distinction. His biceps and forearms, that seemed to flex on their own accord as if winking at Kurt, did justice to his chest, with his hands masculine and large in shape. His pectorals were noticeably defined with large golden brown nipples situated towards the bottom and a well-developed six-pack was bulging out and perfectly outlined right underneath, decorated with a dark trimmed treasure trail that spiraled right down his navel towards the V of his hips and beyond.

Yes, Noah Puckerman was nothing but bronzed muscle. Muscle Man Puck. Yet as soon as Kurt had finished the eye candy tour, the heated sweetness of it all seemed to sour into a bitter sight as he took in the anxious look on the jock's face. The fair boy had yet to say or moreover do anything to acknowledge what he was seeing in front of him, for apparently he was here not only to merely teach Puckerman how to kiss, but to nurse his aggrieved ego. With that thought in mind, Kurt forced himself to set free a sigh of pleasure through pouted lips, his eyes drooping as they raked over the jock's body and with a suggestive moan, he lost his balance and stumbled forwards, throwing his hands out onto Puckerman's chest for support.

"Whoa, I got you," Puckerman chuckled, whipping out his hands and holding onto the boy as Kurt struggled to regain his footing, like a kitten freshly fallen over, unbalanced with flailing paws, now resuming posture as the jock's hands remained on him as if he feared Kurt was not to be trusted on his feet without support, as if he didn't want to let him go... Now softly murmuring, Puckerman smiled, his voice now rich, warm and intimate. "You okay? I said I'd catch you if you fell, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did. Sorry about that," replied Kurt, forcing out a blush and laughing self-consciously, now looking down at his hands and gulping subtly to himself. His fingers were splayed over each pectoral, milk white on coffee beige. What a striking sight, almost tempting him to start exploring Puckerman's chest with a slight grazing of the nipple here and ghosting of the breath there, like foreplay meant to end with Kurt's fingers gripping onto the hard body for support as his mouth cried out.

"It's cool, Hummel," replied Puck, throwing Kurt a handsome smirk in thanks for the reassurance he'd so desperately needed. Maybe he wasn't totally fucked after all, watching as Kurt pulled away to fetch him his clothes, the jock's smirk widening as the boy failed to properly look him in the eye from apparent embarrassment, blue orbs shy. All he had to do was nail all this kissing shit and he'd be home free. "So Hummel, can we do this again sometime? I don't think we've covered everything."

"No, we haven't, and originally even though I knew we'd never get through them all, I was adamant on us only having the one lesson," replied Kurt, as Puckerman's smirk faltered. "However, since you've done well today Puckerman, I'm willing to go through more with you, granted that you continue doing well. You've still yet to learn how to control your breath, how to use your tongue and where to put your hands when kissing, but apart from that you're getting there. You did good."

"Thanks, Hummel," smiled Puck, somewhat missing Kurt's strawberry crimson shaded blush that had since melted into a creamy variation of soft peach as he pulled on his jacket before making his way over to the basement stairs. He felt like he wanted to say something, a cold 'cheers', or a dismissive 'thanks dude', or a threatening 'remember, if you talk, you're pound mush', but no, nothing. It didn't seem cool to end like that after such intimacy with a boy as cute as Milk Kun or Moofia Milk.

"Try to remember what we've gone through today, okay Puckerman? I won't be going over them again, we just won't have time. Oh, and one other thing..." began Kurt, making his way over to the listening jock by the first step. "Since I am your tutor, don't refer to me as Hummel or Lady Hummel or Lady or Lady Lips or Lady Face or lady anything when we're having our lessons, alright. At school, you can go nuts, but when you're here with him, call me Kurt. Think you can do that?"

"Sure, I can do that... Kurt."

"What about you? You want me to keep on calling you Pucker-"

"Just call me Puck. Everyone does."

"Okay... Puck. Free tomorrow after school?"

"See you then," parted Puckerman, climbing the stairs only to stop half way up before coming back down again, making his way over to Kurt, the boy now bewildered, and stopping. There he brought up his thumb to trail across Kurt's full lips, flesh on flesh so smooth there was no friction to speak of, so soft it had the jock weakening where he stood, his breaths broken and jagged as he smiled, now winking at him. "Look after those sweet lips whilst I'm gone Kurt; that Vaseline shit really works."

"Will do," breathed Kurt, and with that, Puck bounded up the stairs and out the front door, leaving in the midst of the cutest tingles that danced across the fair boy's lips like sugar as Kurt looked back over to his bed in thought. He was now to create a lesson plan for tomorrow, to compile a list of kisses he'd feel Puck was now ready to learn, for the jock was getting good and now that he was, teaching him didn't appear so much as a chore than predicted. Kissing him wasn't all that bad either.

To be perfectly honest, Kurt was looking forward to their next lesson. Today they'd shared warm smiles over bouts of laughter, promising kisses in a changing air, and over the course of the lesson, Puck had been very agreeable, cooperative and ever so gentle with him. Perhaps a little too gentle. Throughout it all, Kurt had felt as if something had been missing. It was all too emotionless, too blank and detached for what was really needed, and if he was here to teach this jock how to properly make out, he was going to have to fire up the heat. The only way he was going to be able to manage that, though, was to let himself go, and there really was only one solution. He was going to have to become attracted to Noah Puckerman.


	13. Kiss of Death

_Oh, do it again. I may say no, no, no, no, but do it again  
_ _My lips just ache to have you take the kiss that's waiting for you  
_ _You know if you do, you won't regret it. Come and get it…_

It had been three days since Kurt and Puck's last kissing session. They'd had two so far with the first having gone well and the second having explored the neck area, with a variety of kisses. Thankfully, they had all been successes, except for the times Puck hadn't closed his mouth tight enough and allowed himself to slobber all over Kurt's pale neck. Kurt, however, hadn't minded… much. It was all part of the learning process, and the jock could have done a lot worse. In fact, the Vampire kiss, which was just a hickey with extra bite, had the risk of being very painful, but Puck hadn't thrown caution to the wind. He'd kept his current streak of gentleness towards his tutor and each time he did, Kurt appreciated him that bit more.

Kurt didn't mind that the boy had wanted warm up with other types of kisses before learning the famous French kiss. They were all fun and flirty in nature and, in fact, during the last session, Kurt could remember when they had joked around, how Puck's hands would somehow wind around his waist protectively and how his habit of brushing his lips on Kurt's porcelain skin was quite pleasant. It was nice, although to say it hadn't been awkward outside the confines of his room would have been a lie. Although they didn't see each other often during the day apart from the odd shared lesson, whenever they had encountered each other, both of them had avoided each other's eyes as if it were enough to petrify them into stone statues.

No one knew what they were doing outside of school but judging by their normal behavior, no one would have had any reason to suspect. The only real giveaway would have been the huge waves of tension that had radiated off of them in the corridors or at lunch and at this it, Kurt cringed dramatically as he eyed his stained top in his bathroom mirror. He had clumsily spilt fruit juice down its front when he'd returned home and the prospect of washing it out was not ridding the annoyed huff and its accompanying expression by any means. Removing it with a sigh, he put it in the laundry basket and made to get a new one. However, as he opened the door, he saw Puck sitting on his bedroom couch, his hands fumbling, nervous.

"Oh… hi, Puck... ," Kurt breathed surprised, slowly emerging from his bathroom, as Puck's head shot up like a meerkat on the Savannah, his eyes and ears pricked very much like the animal as he watched the pale boy slowly emerge from his bathroom den. Yet, the way Kurt did so escalated the awkwardness quite noticeably. He seemed to want to turn his back to Puck, to shield his nakedness, or to even run back into the bathroom, but in the end, he didn't. Kurt stayed put, his chest bare.

However, whilst he had managed to retain his own dignity whilst fighting an inner battle of modesty, the same could not be said for Puck. As soon as the jock had taken note of Kurt's nude chest and anxious expression, he'd shot up, knocking the coffee table slightly and chuckling nervously as he'd put it back to the way it was. Blinking at the stumble, Kurt continued. "I didn't know you were here. Who let you in? You were supposed to come after school but you never showed up."

"I had football practice until late so I couldn't hitch a ride with you. I drove here instead... oh, and your front door was unlocked. I rang the doorbell but nobody answered so I... kinda came in. Sorry about that," replied Puck apologetically, Kurt biting his lip at his own carelessness. It hadn't been the first time that he'd left the front door ajar and his father had once gone crazy when he'd come home from work to think that they'd been robbed. Kurt had never seen him so mad.

Glancing briefly at the jock as he hurried on over to his wardrobe, Kurt noticed Puck quickly avert his eyes from his naked torso as he rummaged for anything that could go with his blue jeans. Thankfully, it didn't take long since most of what he had did and so he finally settled on a powder pink tee-shirt with a cartoon dead face at it, its black crosses for eyes, upturned smile and protruding tongue catching Puck's attention as he slid it on. "Nice tee-shirt, where did you get it?"

"I came across it when I was rummaging around EBay. It only cost me about three dollars so I thought what the hell," replied Kurt heartily, pulling the bottom of the shirt up and away from his body as he looked down at it as if he'd won it at a fair ground stand. Usually printed tee shirts weren't his style. In the past he'd always dismissed them as cheap and tacky, but he'd lately come round to the idea when discovering striking, bubbly yet solemn designs like the one he was wearing.

Making his way over to his laptop, Kurt brought it over to the couch where Puck had once again resumed sitting. It was strange. This was the closest they'd been to each other since their last session, and the heat Kurt could feel radiating off Puck and onto him was enough to make his fingers quiver on the keyboard. "Alright, today we won't have as much time as we had last time, simply because we totally forgot about your football practice so we'll have to move swiftly, okay?"

"Shit, okay… um… what should we do first?"

"Well, today we're going to be using the-"

"Tongue and hands? I remember you said."

"Yes, so we're going to start with a kiss to ease us into it."

"Good idea," replied Puck. This oughtn't to have made him nervous, but somehow the idea including tongues and hands unsettled him greatly. For Kurt, he would have thought that the first lesson would have covered and got rid of all tension regarding putting their mouths together but as he watched Puck's large masculine hands fumble together like a small child's in what was clearly a sign of anxiousness, he knew that wasn't going to be the case. "So what do kiss do we start off with?"

"Here we are," answered Kurt as he pulled his laptop onto his lap and scrolled down the list of kisses on the site until he came across the one he was looking for, the 'French Kiss'. Here it was, The very kiss Puck had attempted to give but had failed epically on in gym class and again when he had tackled Kurt in Sheets-N-Things. It was recognized as the simplest of tongue kisses but due to its popularity and name, that didn't matter. Attempting it remained very much daunting to Puck.

"Fuck," muttered Puck, making out the bold text on the screen as Kurt sneaked a discreet glance over at him. Yet as soon as he did, the jock immediately brought his squinting eyes from the screen to his face as if he'd predicted Kurt would do it. Kurt, however, smiled soothingly back, causing Puck's nerves to soften and in return, he offered Kurt a small smile of his own as he held onto the brunet's gaze. "I'm sorry if I'm acting like a total weirdo Kurt, it's just I really want to do this right, you know?"

"Of course you do, Puck, and I'm here to help you," replied Kurt, thinking his words would offer comfort, yet as he turned to face Puck once again, he did a double take as he took in his guilt. Puck looked guilty, that he was forcing someone to do something they didn't want to do and what made it worse was that they were doing a good job of it, proving that someone of lower high school status was not only better at such a simple act, but who could teach it as well. How embarrassing.

Sensing that an extremely awkward apology was just on the tip of Puck's tongue, Kurt went full steam ahead. He shifted his laptop closer to Puck so that he wouldn't have to strain his eyes with incessant squinting that would leave him exhausted, but which also meant shifting his legs to touch that of the jock's. Yep, Puck had a hot leg. "Alright, so the four main tongue kisses are of course, the French kiss, but we also have the Secret Message kiss, the Wet Kiss and, finally, the Biting Kiss."

"Are you saying we're going to have to cram in four kisses into one session? I don't know if I can do that," replied Puck as he shook his head, before rubbing the palms of his hands along his jean-clad thighs. Kurt had to admit that it did sound bit a much. It took time to explain exactly what had to be done, to warm up the muscles in the jaw and tongue before actually performing and practicing the kiss it until it was memorized and perfected. Rushing through it would only harm their progress.

"I guess you're right. We'll just have to save the rest for a later lesson," relented Kurt, admitting relief that fewer types of kisses had to be covered today such as the Secret Message kiss that had you spell a message on your partner's tongue. It felt as if it would feel a little funny but he couldn't help but think what he'd spell across Puck's tongue, or vice versa. The jock would probably write out his long to do list of every girl he'd plan on kissing once he'd got good. Kurt would be there forever.

"You don't mind that we only stick to one or two today, do you Kurt?"

"Not at all. These are your lessons; we'll go at the pace you're most comfortable with."

"Thanks, but I'm only thinking of you. I don't want to choke you with my tongue."

"I believe you've threatened to do that to me once. Not with your tongue of course."

"I did? Oh my God," replied Puck, staring back at Kurt before moaning almost in pain as he threw himself face-down into the nearest pillow and lay there motionless. If Kurt hadn't known any better, he would have guessed that the jock had just spontaneously planked on the couch, but knowing the true reasons behind the groans and muffled words Puck was letting out into the cushion, he got that the jock was really starting to feel bad about his past threats.

"How about we just forget about all that shall we?" Suggested Kurt, laying on a hand on Puck's arm as he tried to prevent himself from bursting into giggles, even more so when the jock straightened himself up beside him. Puck had times when he could simply be so adorable. "Anyway, the French kiss is the most well-known kiss out there so just relax, Puck, alright? Take a deep breath and just try to rid yourself of any tension you might have in your neck and shoulders."

"Okay... how do I do that?" Frowned Puck, watching as Kurt got up from the couch and stood before him, indicating with his hands for him to follow. The jock shook free of his anxieties and joined the boy on his feet, positioning himself so that his legs were hips width apart, hands hanging loosely by his sides, head upright and looking straight ahead with his eyes occasionally flitting back over to trace Kurt's face as he did exactly what he was told, taking every instruction in as he remained still.

His breathing remained steady, using his whole diaphragm to access his full lung capacity and as he did so, Kurt proceeded to walk around him, rubbing his shoulders and neck, giving them a thorough massage to help them further relax, unlock and unwind. On his round, Kurt would have sworn he had heard a moan emanate but he didn't address it. He just smiled as he came to stand before Puck once more, a grin on the jock's lips. "Thanks for that Kurt, it helped. Feels kinda nice."

"Well, you were retaining a lot of tension which I had to get rid of," replied Kurt, smiling politely as he stepped back and took in Puck's posture and stance before circling him once more, his eyes constantly checking for anything tense. Nothing. "Great, at the moment you're laid back, which is what we want. It's what they call the 'Californian' in the Seven Levels of Tension. Many people live at this level of tension. Everything you say is cool, relaxed, probably lacking in credibility, you know."

"I feel relaxed. It feels kinda like I'm lying down, but I'm standing," smiled Puck, thoroughly enjoying how at ease his body now felt as Kurt went back to observing him from the front. The jock was standing fully upright and appeared not to be withholding any tension in his body. His knees weren't locked but loose, his shoulders had succumbed to gravity and a lazy smile graced his full lips. If you asked Kurt, the look on the jock was pretty sexy, sexier than when he put it on when flirting.

"Okay, hands. Now you usually see hands on the sides of faces with thumbs sweeping across cheekbones or tilting the head up by the chin, but we're going to start off simple, alright?" Began Kurt as Puck nodded. "First off Puck, put your arms around my waist and keep them secure. You don't want whomever you're kissing to feel as if the grip isn't strong enough that you won't help them stay in place, but that really shouldn't be a problem with the amount of muscle in yours."

"Thanks," Puck chuckled as he slid his hands around Kurt's waist, his arms circling the lithe body in front as he brought the pale boy shuffling into him until their chests brushed against each others. It wasn't an alien feeling. In fact, Puck knew very well that he had let his hands slip around Kurt in their last session, but now it was different. The brunet was expecting it, and Puck's hands didn't feel like they were going off on their own accord. They had been granted access and it felt right.

"However, when I say to keep a strong secure grip Puck, I don't mean death grip. I've noticed in the past that your fingers have a tendency to dig in like claws and it can hurt so be be careful, okay," advised Kurt, watching Puck's Adam's apple rise with a gulp as the jock once again nodded. In the past, kissing had indeed always been a struggle and what with Kurt always trying to flee, no wonder Puck's hands had clung on so tight. Hopefully, pale skin wouldn't be left marked by the end of this.

His fingers shifting slightly on Kurt's waist, Puck watched as Kurt lifted his own hands up and rested them comfortably on the his broad shoulders, though Puck hardly registered them there, they bared weighed anything. However, he still noticed them. How the fair toned fingers seemed to lightly dust bits away from his tee shirt and how they now felt so lukewarm and clement in contrast to a body so rich in heat, Puck couldn't help but take note. "Wow Kurt, your body's always real warm and toasty."

"Toasty, Puck? Really?"

"Yeah, you're like one of those cute teddy bear hot water bottles."

"Oh yeah, I used to have one of those when I was little. It was all covered in fine fluff."

"Well, you'd... you'd make a good substitute if I was cold at night."

"Oh, thank you Puck. I... guess I wouldn't mind having your arms around me at night either," smiled Kurt as Puck shuffled on his feet in embarrassment, a guilty smile playing on his lips. If the jock kept this up then becoming attracted to him wouldn't be as hard as he'd imagined, yet as Kurt looked into those magnetic hazel eyes, the golden brown orbs specked around the edges with hints of mint green all staring powerfully back at him, he remembered he had a fire to stoke, heat to bring.

"Now start off by kissing me normally Puck, and then gently open your mouth and softly nudge my mouth open with your tongue," instructed Kurt, taking his hand from Puck's shoulder and clearly illustrating his words with a set of nimble fingers as light as air. It was a form of teaching that worked very well with the jock. "Saliva build-up can prove to be a problem so don't forget to swallow and make sure the tongue is relaxed but the lips tight. We don't want to make a mess like last time."

"That was one messy kiss," chuckled Puck, reminiscing past slobber like kisses before tentatively lowering his face to Kurt's, pausing for a minute before locking their lips together. The kiss started off simple, their mouths unmoving but as time went on, Puck opened his up, brought out his tongue and caressed Kurt's mouth softly with it. The brunet, feeling the request, slowly opened his mouth in response, Puck's tongue ever so carefully entering as it began to explore the pink cavern within.

Everything was going well, but again there was no passion. The movements were too shy, bland and banal, rendering it all sapless which prompted Kurt to wrap his arms around Puck's neck as he lean into him, letting a moan float from within. The jock's eyes flew open at the sound and he glanced down at the boy, who had now unleashed his tongue to play with his own. Play. Kurt wanted to play. Quickly catching the hint and without further delay, Puck pulled Kurt closer into him, fully encircled him in his arms and rapidly sank like a sucker right into it. Now this is more like it, as Kurt's hand began stroking the skin on Puck's neck, the soothing circles at the jock's nape persuading Puck to voice a whimper like moan of his own.

Sensing the kiss had come to an end, Kurt made to pull away but it proved to be a little more a challenge than necessary. As he tried to remove his lips from Puck's, the jock continued to latch onto him until the very last second, his hands gripping hard into the pale boy's sides. It wasn't very painful, more like a sharp pinch, but a pinch sharp enough to elicit a wince out Kurt's features. A part of him wanted to scold Puck for hurting him, for Kurt's skin, unlike the jock's which was mocha brown and hot to the touch as if sunburnt, was smooth, thin and eggshell pale where a boy had gripped him in the forgetfulness of the kiss, easily bruised, the bruises worn like mauled rose petals. Yet, he didn't. He remained sacchariferous and calm. Nice and calm.

"Well done Puck, you did exactly as I said, although you sort of hung onto me a little too tightly towards the end. Remember that when you sense a girl pulling away, do not force her back into the kiss. It'll turn her off and it'll likely have her slapping you around the face," explained Kurt, feeling the pressure of those football-bearing hands lighten considerably as Puck winced at his own mistake. "Oh, and you have a little bit of saliva coming out of the corner of your mouth... right... there."

"Damn it, and here I was thinking that kiss was perfect," muttered Puck down heartedly, shooting up a hand to his mouth as he brushed the trickling liquid away before wiping it on the back of his jeans. In response, Kurt couldn't contain his minor look of distaste. He would have handed the jock a tissue, yet even that wouldn't have worked seeing as Puck's hands had now returned to their perches on his waist, as if they'd created their own little nest there where they sat in serene comfort.

"It wasn't perfect, no, but then it was our first go," comforted Kurt, rubbing his hand down to Puck's chest as he smiled. "If you want we can move on to the Wet and the Biting kisses. The Wet kiss is essentially an open-mouthed kiss with or without tongue where wearing lip balm beforehand or licking your lips isn't necessary because you'll be getting your lips wet anyway. Then the Biting kiss is like the French kiss but as you pull back, your teeth lightly grab onto the other person's tongue."

"Can we stick to the French kiss for now? It's just that I'd like more practice with this," proposed Puck determinedly as Kurt fleeted a look down at his watch. They only had ten minutes left of the lesson, but that was more than enough time to run it through again. Peeling away from Puck, the boy walked over to the bed and sat down, patting the space next to him. Since they had been standing for some time, Kurt believed a change of position might do them good as Puck joined him on the bed.

They shuffled and made themselves comfortable on the comforter, with Kurt resting his hands on Puck's broad shoulders as the jock in turn slid his arms around his waist. Yet no sooner had they positioned themselves then without any hesitation and much to Kurt's surprise and consequent alarm, Puck immediately dived in like an over-excited puppy for another sumptuous kiss, his mouth landing on Kurt's with a wet thud. It was enough force to send the brunet falling back on the bed with an even greater thud, but due to thick arms fastened around him, so thick Kurt felt as though both of them spanned his entire back in tanned and tawny muscle, he remained upright with his hands clinging onto Puck's shirt in a desperate bid to keep up.

As Kurt eventually began to catch up with the jock's speedy pace, a pace that was not rushed but velocious in passion, he thought it best to let himself go. He let go of the notion that he was the teacher here to assess Puck's progress in favor of adopting the idea that they were now equal, that they were two boys in this together, kissing. For it seemed that judging by how Puck's tongue was stroking his like an aroused lover, pouring his affection into him like they were meant for each other and holding him tight like he was his forever, that Kurt's lips were the tastiest set of lips the jock had ever graced with his own. The guava lips of his wet dreams that when devoured burst out into a delicious watermelon waterfall of flavor.

However, as Puck delved ever further, ever deeper into the pale boy's mouth, fucking it with a thick moist filled tongue; he began to lean in towards Kurt, forcing the brunet to lean back until his head hit the bed. At first, Kurt didn't think much of it, gladly welcoming the new position, yet as he opened his eyes and noticed the jock start to remove his Letterman jacket, throwing it aside with their mouths still very much connected, his sense of self-assurance waned. Puck was starting to really, really get into this and Kurt didn't quite know how to react. He didn't know what to do. He had been the one to enforce more passion, yes, but there was a fine line between fervor and a lion-like hunger that was roaring inside the boy above him.

As Puck removed his arms from around Kurt and spread open his thighs for him to settle in between, Kurt's nerves grew ever higher. His legs were being forced apart and made to wrap around Puck's hips, the jock directing them around his body so that the heat from both their navels collided. Kurt's hands were up against Puck's shoulders, pushing and slipping against the ruffled, crinkled shirt. He wanted to protest, wished to cry out, yet he was silenced as the jock thrusted against him, the tent in Puck's jeans rubbing up on him with denim tearing friction. Letting out an indignant squeak of discomfort and protest, Kurt's eyes looked around wildly as the boy above him feasted himself on his mouth, bodies writhing, consent rejected.

Puck on the other hand was having a fucking awesome time. He'd been so hard heartedly adamant not to repeat his previous mistakes, so tenacious to gift Kurt with a French kiss he knew he could give, that as soon as his arms had found their rightful place back on the boy's waist, he'd not wasted any more of their fleeting time. As he'd gone in for the kiss, he'd taken it upon himself to flare-up the passion, keeping his grip secure but not overtly so and making sure to keep control of his saliva. He'd soon followed this up by laying Kurt on the bed with him on top, removing his Letterman jacket as the sudden rise in heat had distracted him and had brought the brunet's legs around his hips so as to make it more comfortable for them both.

However, this missionary position allowed great stimulation to his abdomen, pooling a heat down below and tickling his manhood so that it stood to attention, proclaiming itself ready for action, yet there wasn't going to be any action. The body below belonged to a sex Puck was not sexually attracted to, and Kurt, despite being gay and having the weight of the jock's very much male form on top of him, returned his mutual feelings. Neither one of them harbored carnal desires for one another, though Puck's erection was evidence to the contrary. It could not be mistaken, could not be taken any other way. Sexuality and attraction be damned, the pleasure spoke for itself and so like a slave to his now bubbling hormones, Puck gave in.

In the end, however, giving in simply wasn't enough. The heat now frothing violently at the pit of his stomach, enough to pop his navel out, was getting angry at him. It was not getting what it wanted, what it always wanted. It's temper was surging red hot liquid down into his already erect length and the more it lay there untouched, unstimulated and left to throb, pulsing in pain from lack of attention, friction or something warm to cave into, the greater Puck's need to move. He needed to move. He couldn't remain motionless and so with the bucking of his hips, his muscle packed abdomen pulling the movement along, Puck powered his first thrust against Kurt's crotch, the rubbing appeasing and satisfying his shaft as he continued.

With each thrust that was laid on him, Kurt could now garner a very good idea of what being pounded into the mattress must have felt like. He no longer felt safe in his own bed. He feared these thrusts would soon have his head hitting the headboard, the wood then ramming against the wall with creaking screams as the structure would sway back and forth like a perilous scaffolding about to collapse on top of him. He feared the supports in the mattress were loosening as it began to dip further and further down beneath him, burying him deeper in the comforter and he feared his breath would leave him, never to come back in as Puck crushed his chest, the pressure building as Kurt began to feel faint, disorientation now clouding his vision.

However, even if his sight were beginning to lose clarity, his hearing was still very much aware as he took in the first set of moans emanating from the jock above him. These moans were of sexual pleasure, explicit enough to be of a pornographic standard, but genuine enough to be very much real. They weren't faked, they weren't put on. Puck's moans sonically represented his pleasure, with a rhythm underlying it all yet with a beat that just got faster. 2/4, 3/4, 4/4, away it went, along with the jock's mouth as it licked and soothed Kurt's swollen lips, his erratic panting accompanying a cacophony of broken groans and grunts, signaling to them both that the end was approaching rapidly, for Puck was close. Very, very close.

His eyes tightening shut, Puck's arms wrapped themselves under Kurt's back and hoisted the boy up against him, causing Kurt's head to flop back like a rag doll's exposing alabaster flesh not yet marked on his neck. It was too tempting not to praise, yet as he made for it, a tingle in his groin warned him of the impending end. Where the hell was his stamina? It was too soon. It felt as though he'd only been at it for several seconds yet his orgasm was fast approaching, and what was with all this moaning? If he hadn't been so into it, he would have been embarrassed, seeing as it was the chicks who were usually the more sonant ones, but now it seemed Kurt was bringing out another side of him, a more vocal side he fucking loved.

"Damn... oh God... oh Kurt..."

"Puck, stop! Please!"

"Oh... oh, oh, fuck! I'm gonna come! I'm gonna come!"

"No, you mustn't!"

As Puck took pleasure in his final moments, Kurt watched in horror as the jock's hands came out from beneath him before slamming themselves down into the comforter, tugging and taking in fistfuls of the straining material with enough force to rip it open, sending down feathers to fly everywhere. Kurt had to do something. If he were to allow Puck a pleasure wracked with guilt, the jock would only regret it. It was for his own good so as Puck's chest expanded in the wake of groans almost too loud and large for his rib cage to contain, Kurt took his chance. Pushing with all his might against Puck and using every ounce of squashed strength he had left in his flattened body, he shoved the now bewildered jock off the bed with a very forceful push.

With an exclaim of surprise coupled with dazed eyes, Puck was thrown from the bed and landed on the floor beside it with a harsh thud, a moan of pain soon following as if the jock had landed awkwardly with his arm now crushed underneath his body. Kurt knew it was wrong, but he'd had no choice. He'd done it for Puck's sake, yet as he felt as though his actions were completely justified, the next set of noises were not of pleasure or bliss. In fact, they weren't the sounds of anything remotely positive because, within the next second, he had slammed his hands over his ears as the jock let forth an ear-deafening howl of anger, his roar thundering around the room at such a decibel that had the pale boy wincing over and over again.

 _Coitus interruptus_  or just 'withdrawal', Kurt had read, was a method of birth control that wasn't reportedly popular with couples due to the sense of sexual frustration and dissatisfaction that resulted from it, and even though he and Puck had not been having sex, he had prevented the jock from climaxing. He was now the ultimate 'cock blocker', but he hadn't become one in hopes of leading Puck on. He'd done it for the opposite reasons. He'd done it because it was right, although, come to think of it, were these lessons nothing but a massive cock teasing charade? Had he been unintentionally teasing Puck all this time? It wasn't a question he could answer before a bark of rage mercilessly ripped through the air, tearing it apart ruthlessly.

"What the hell, Hummel?! I mean... what the fuck?!" Puck panted, picking himself up from the floor and grabbing his jacket before glaring at Kurt, his hazel eyes aflame. Those flames were enough to make Kurt cower. He drew his knees in as close as he could get them to his body, had his arms wrap around them so they'd stay put and his terrified face with eyes round as a child's, winced in fear that what he assumed he'd done with good intentions would now prove to be his undoing.

"Puck, I had to. You were... were...," murmured Kurt, his voice quivering. The raw animal within Puck was bursting to strike out, to attack, to harm but he knew he shouldn't. Deep down he knew he'd gone too far what with rutting against Kurt and taking advantage of him just to get off, but he'd been so close to coming, painfully close that his eyes were masked by a thick veil of fuming anger that clouded those emotions of guilt in favor of the deadlier ones. No one cock blocked him. No one.

"I don't give a shit if I was dry fucking you, Hummel! I needed to get off and all you had to do was lie there and take it!" Barked Puck, nearing Kurt as the boy shuffled back until he hit the headboard with a clunk. "What you did was a dick move, a dick move, and if your dad wasn't about to come home any second now, I would be grabbing hold of your jaw and crushing it to powder with my bare hand! You here that, 'cos if you ever do anything like this again, you little fag, I will  _ **kill**_  you!"

With a final poisonous glare, Puck whipped around, stormed across the room and up the stairs before slamming the door behind him, the sound echoing like shattering glass around the bedroom. Silence. Only silence followed. It seemed to stretch out for an eternity within the space of a few pathetic seconds with its only company in the form of a pale boy sitting on his bed, staring unblinkingly at the untidy comforter. He breathed in deeply for the first time in several minutes after having only survived on small pockets of it during his assault and picked himself up from the bed in a robotic manner, his actions frigid and detached as he made and plumped his unruly state of a bed before making his way over to his laptop on the couch.

However, before Kurt could claim it, his blank eyes caught themselves in the reflection in the wall-length mirror over by the farthest wardrobe. It beckoned him over for a closer look, to give him a chance to fix his appearance and to stare into the deep blue eyes that were like beautiful dark hooks for the soul. Puck had referred to him by his last name, had called him a 'fag' yet again, and had threatened to kill him if he'd ever repeat such actions, yet at this, the jock had given himself away. Despite his current distemper, it would only be a matter of time before the craving would set in. He'd return, he'd come back for Kurt's touch, a touch that had enslaved his senses and when that would come to pass, Kurt would be there to crush him.

_Oh, no one is near. I may cry, oh, oh, oh but no one will hear._   
_My mom may scold me 'cause she's told me it is naughty, but then_   
_oh do it again, please…_

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

A week had been and gone since the infamous kissing lesson and Kurt was doing his very best to forget it. He had thrown himself back into a range of activities from working harder on the Cheerios, where Sylvester had promoted him as a reward for his efforts. He had aided the Glee club update its rather worn out musical library so that they wouldn't all be stuck with loops of vintage Fifties radio and, last but not least, his studies. Kurt wasn't by any means in the league of the brightest or cleverest of students - he never had been academic - but then again he wasn't the thickest either. He retained average B's in his papers, B+'s if he had a good day and the occasional A- or A, if he really gave it his all, but that almost never happened.

Now, however, due to the incident with Puck, Kurt was scoring A's across the board in every single one of his classes. He was participating more in the classroom, engaging in group discussions, capturing every one of his teacher's impressed attentions and giving in well written work that had his peers showering him with envy. At this, Kurt was pleased, proud he might say of his accomplishments. He was no longer a 'passenger', the 'plant' who always remained quiet, but a more active member of McKinley school life, more assertive and assured. He was being recognized for this well received change, a change unbeknownst to everyone that was listed as the only positive outcome from a vile occurrence in his bedroom a week ago.

Kurt had been hurt by Puck, had feared for his life when it had been threatened, and he had every right to hate the jock because of it. He could spill some tears, even wail if he so wished, but that wouldn't be in his nature now, it wouldn't be in accordance to his recent change. All he did know was that any roots of allure he might have felt for Puck during their lessons had been torn out, even if it been Noah kissing him for the most part. His dislike for the jock was too intense. Kurt avoided him in the corridors, at lunch, sat as far away from him in class as was possible, and kept him out of sight and out of mind. How Puck was doing, he did not know. If he looked his way, Kurt would not know, for what he didn't know, wouldn't hurt him.

However, even though he'd made it apparent that he no longer wanted anything to do with the jock; he knew Puck would eventually reject this condition. True, they had yet to speak or come in contact with each other, but Kurt still did not trust the boy not to break this silence and approach him, so he had decided to work on an original plan that had never come to fruition - to convince Quinn to consider Puck as a potential love interest and boyfriend. It may be hard to maneuver, but it could result in a positive outcome. Puck was single, but recently made insecure about sexual intimacy giving him a vulnerability that highlighted Noah within, a boy Kurt knew Quinn would fall head over heels for. It was just a matter of making them meet.

As it was, he was taking a break from Cheerio practice, sitting on the lowest bleacher tier with both Quinn and Brittany by his sides as they debated Santana's next plastic surgery move once the novelty of her great looking but hard as fucking rocks breasts wore off. Brittany believed the Latina's lips were going to get the collagen jab whilst Quinn had her bets on either laser hair removal or rhinoplasty to make her nose even smaller. Their guesses weren't wild, but highly probable considering their apparent popularity and Kurt wouldn't put it past Santana to get them all, but to be perfectly honest, he didn't care. He already had far too much on his mind to be thinking of Lady Ta-Ta sandpapering her skin down to the bone with beetle husk.

"I'm telling you, Santana is going to get the 'trouty-duckface' look. Lips so big it'll look like she'll be giving birth to her own head. It'll be so funny! Anything she'll say will be as muffled as a fart coming from a pregnant woman's bum," laughed Brittany, slapping her hand over her mouth, her body rocking with pent up hilarity as both Quinn and Kurt rolled their eyes before turning away to look upon the field, the grass strewn with Cheerios on one side and the Titans on the other.

"But fattening your lips with whale blubber is never good. Look at that Lana Del Rey girl," Brittany continued, now calm enough to speak again. "I mean, when you've got the top beak you have to balance it with the bottom beak, and then you have to balance the whole beak with the cheeks, and before you know it, you're just a visitor in your own face. That's what happens when you break the first rule: mouth should be smaller than face. Yet boys like big mouths and I think I know why…"

"Britt, I think we all know why, and that hasn't stopped them from liking when you've gone down on them. Your lips aren't all that large in size yet I've heard them say crudely in the past that that mouth of yours has talent," replied Quinn, Brittany frowning at her for a few seconds, her eyes slowly shifting from her face to Kurt's amused expression before her body language and posture morphed into one of great pride and smugness as she blew a kiss at the footballers across the field.

"Britt," Quinn began, laying a hand on the girl's shoulder as Brittany turned to look at her, her flirtatious attitude simmering down into the likeness of a child's, with wide eyes and an awaiting face. It was quite a disturbing change. "They can't really see you from here unless they have binoculars glued to their eyes which would be creepy. Actually, come to think of it, that isn't nearly as creepy as some of the stuff they have done in the past when they've tried to see what's under these outfits."

"I don't want to know," Kurt chimed in, shifting on the hard bleacher seats as he scrunched up his nose. "It will just make me ashamed of being classified a boy if these Neanderthal jerks keep on behaving like horny, testosterone-filled buffoons." He watched the football players, all of them practicing throwing and passing the ball along with learning to perfect the scrum and tackle. In his eyes, it was such an animalistic sport that no wonder it brought out the inner evil to burn in them all.

Now looking over at Quinn and Brittany, Kurt took in how both of them were admiring the shouting and sweating Titans, their masculine barks and roars accompanied with the sheer heat in their eyes causing both blondes to bite their glossed lips dangerously. With that many crazy male hormones concentrated and contained in one small area, no wonder they were reacting to them from way over here as Kurt smirked. "So Quinn, you seem to like what you see. Anyone there you like?"

"Well, I've always thought, I don't know, Sam is pretty cute. I mean, the others are alright while the rest are just douche bags, but I think Sam is, well I'd like to think, different," answered Quinn, Kurt rolling his eyes before slumping against the seats behind him. Now this was a problem. He'd forgotten all about Sam, how both blondes shared excellent chemistry, a factor that could neither be ignored or beaten and in the end seemed to be one potent weapon against Kurt's plan.

At that moment, Kurt felt as though rather than setting Quinn up with a Blonde Adonis of Athenian wealth and power, beloved for his fair coloring and masculine air, he was setting her up with a mountain troll, banished to the underworld and forever cursed with a Mohawk used as a blade to cut up its victims that would lose themselves in its lair. There really was no contest as Kurt moaned, Quinn continuing. "So who do you guys like? Kurt? Any guys on the Titans you think are cute?"

"There's the odd one here and there, I suppose."

"Are you not into jocks?"

"The image yes, the personalities, no."

"I see what you mean."

"I know you do, because I know a certain jock's image you've been checking out from time to time apart from Captain Peroxide Blonde's, despite his rather... ineloquent personality," began Kurt as he shuffled slightly to regain his posture. However as he faced Quinn, he internally huffed as the blonde had yet to tear her eyes away from the Titans, or moreover Sam. Really, girls could sometimes be just as bad as the boys when it came to lusting. Here was blonde haired proof.

"Ooh, which jock are we talking about Kurtie?" Asked Brittany curiously, shuffling round to face him as Kurt leaned down and snapped his fingers in front of Quinn's face, as if that it was the only sound capable of breaking the spell that left her very much embarrassed. The blush that then appeared on her cheeks seemed to narrate the story of her wildest fantasies on parchment made of fair skin, that the sweet feminine doe inside her wished for that masculine deer with the robust chest.

Kurt made to smirk. No matter how perfect Sam might have looked for Quinn, there was no denying Puck had one of the most robust chests around. Kurt could fully attest to that. He just hoped Quinn would take his word for it as he fixed her with a guileless look free from any suspicion before continuing his analysis which was sure to stun her. "Well, I don't know this for sure, since I've only noticed it out of the corner of my eye a couple of times, but… oh, I don't know whether I should say."

"Kurt, you can't say that and not expect to us to want to know who you're talking about. It's too mean of you to leave us hanging," pleaded Brittany as she went to kneel in front of him, folding her arms in his lap whilst resting her chin in the little nook she'd created for herself. It was as if it were story time and there she was looking up at him awaiting the tale of a rather heated nature. Which jock had Quinn been secretly eying up? Who was her guilty pleasure, her forbidden eye candy?

"Well Brittany, Quinn's eyes haven't been alone in their wonderings. Unbeknownst to her, they've been returned."

"Kurt, could you please stop referring to me in the third person. I'm right here."

"I know Q, isn't it more fun this way? It's like telling a story."

"What story, Kurt? I don't what you're talking about. I haven't been checking anyone out."

"Really, Quinn?" Began Kurt, leaning forward as he neared the blonde's face. It could be possible that Quinn actually didn't know what he was talking about and that everything he'd thought he'd seen was all in his head. Maybe it was ideal picture of Puck and Quinn together along with the fear of the jock himself that were making him see things, but he was positive about this. "So you're saying you haven't checked out the tanned Titan of muscle and braun with nothing on his head but a Mohaw-"

"Kurt, there you are! I forgot you were on the Cheerios!" The pale boy whipped around in search of the voice shouting out his name only to see Mr. Schuester walking briskly towards them, his hands clasped together, a smile on his face. Talk about bad timing. Kurt's lips had just been about to form into position to reveal Puck's name. The descriptive buildup had prepared his blonde audience for the finale of the story, but no. This storybook had had the last page ripped out by a curly haired teacher.

Feeling like he ought to rise to meet Mr. Schuester, Kurt made to get up, but was prevented in doing so as Brittany stayed right where she was, her crossed arms refusing to remove themselves from his lap. So he tried again. No go. The blonde was not going to let him leave until she knew exactly how the story ended and so all he could do was sit as the music teacher came to him. "He said you would be here. Hey, Quinn, Britt. Can you come with me, Kurt? I need you for something quick."

"I'm not sure, Mr. Schue. Our five-minute break is over and we have to head back right now otherwise Coach Sylvester will keep us another hour. Can't it wait?" Asked Kurt, Quinn eventually helping to remove Brittany from his lap as he got up and dusted down his uniform. At this, Mr. Schuester looked round indeed to see the once resting Cheerios begin to get up and head back towards their coach, who was shouting at them for returning to practice with so little enthusiasm.

"Oh I'm sure it won't be that big of a problem if one of her Cheerios disappears for another five minutes, but you two girls better head off now. I'm afraid if I take away any more of you she'll go nuts," replied Mr. Schuester gesturing over to Sylvester with a nod of his head. However, Kurt still remained rather unsure. He didn't think it very wise missing practice with anyone, least of all the music teacher, for it was well known that both Sylvester and Schuester hated each other.

"Oh… okay then. Just as long as it lasts no longer than five minutes," replied Kurt, offering his goodbyes to both Quinn and Brittany before being directed back towards the school. He didn't want to leave the girls hanging, like Brittany had said, it was mean, yet as he looked over his shoulder at them, watching as they returned to Coach Sylvester, he could tell nothing else had had to be said. They knew what he was talking about, they knew who he had been referring to, both of them knew.

However, before Kurt turned his head back round to the front, Brittany looked over at him and caught his eye. There they held each other's gazes even though they were walking in opposite directions, distancing each other further and further away with quick strides, yet it was with this gaze that Brittany put across her reply to the unspoken boy he'd just revealed with the shaking of her head, the very firm shaking of her head, as if she'd not liked the ending he'd given her, as if she flat out rejected it. Her wide eyes from earlier had somewhat changed shape, adopting a more adult and distinguished appearance with orbs now with so much insight and sagaciousness, Kurt couldn't help but doubt what he'd said himself.

This doubt was to only hit rock bottom because as soon as he'd fully registered her reaction, Brittany raised her finger and pointed at  _him_. She was pointing at him, Kurt, and the pale boy could only stumble over his own feet as he took in the sight. What could she mean? What was she getting at? The finger pointing was not of a hostile nature, it was not accusing him of anything yet it put about her message loud and clear. Of course, Brittany would be the only other person to think this, because she knew. Her perspicacity was strong enough to see right through him and into his plan, see every blueprint. 'Why are you doing this, Kurt?' She begged. 'Why can't you see?' 'Why won't you see?' Kurt turned away. He didn't want to see.

"So where are we going, Mr. Schue? What do you need me for?"

"I need you to help me audition someone."

"Oh, who is it?"

"I believe he's in your year."

"Okay... do I know them?" Asked Kurt, looking over at Mr. Schuester and noting how evasive the man was being. His eyes blinked ahead, his lips remained pursed as if they were preventing answers to the boy's questions from escaping and come to think of it, he was walking rather quickly, his strides gaining a millimeter in length on every step. To Kurt, it put across a look of unenthusiasm and if Mr. Schuester could already predict a flop of an audition, it was probably true.

"Actually you do know them, Kurt, and they know you. You see they came to me this morning before school asking me for an audition and trust me; I was very much surprised that they asked for one. Hadn't pegged them as being musical at all," shrugged Mr. Schuester, stopping right in front of the auditorium doors, the navy blue panels looming before the pale boy almost as if they were daring him to enter. Kurt frowned. He had a feeling these doors would be best kept shut.

"Are they already in there? Mr. Schue, who are we... auditioning..." asked Kurt, his voice trailing off as the music teacher, pushed open the doors and opened them wide. Darkness the shade of chaos black. The entire auditorium was unlit and left to wallow as a crepuscule, yet as Kurt carefully trod his first steps, he noticed a light. It was a spotlight softened around the edges that shone down onto a lone figure sitting on a stool on the stage with their face obscured by deep jet-black shadows.

"He wanted you here, Kurt. He asked specifically for you," whispered Mr. Schuester, closing the doors behind him before joining Kurt. Yet Kurt was not listening to the teacher. He was too busy taking in those broad shoulders that slumped as if the weight from the spotlight were weighing them down, that Letterman jacket dumped and left to crumple at the foot of the stool, and that shaved head save for a strip that seemed to bow down to him imploring him to stay, to listen, to forgive.

"I'm sorry Mr. Schue, but I can't. I won't," began Kurt, shaking his head as he backed away from the sight. He wanted nothing to do with this boy. The guitar Puck was cradling in his hands, his fingers that were stroking over vibrating strings would play for anybody, but Kurt. He wished not to hear. However, as he made for the theater's double doors, Mr. Schuester gently took hold of his arm and stopped him. "Mr. Schue, please don't make me listen to him. I can't listen to him. I only hate him."

"He told me you'd be like this, that you'd feel this way, but please Kurt, if you don't do this for Puckerman, at least do this for me, for the Glee club," pleaded Mr. Schuester as Kurt stood there amazed with himself. Why wasn't he running? He could very quickly free his arm out of the teacher's unsuspecting grip and bolt it out of there but a combination of what had happened in last fifteen minutes - Brittany's cryptic signs, Puck's woebegone form, Mr. Schuester begging - they all made him stay.

"How do you know he's even any good, Mr. Schue? How do you know he's even worth our time, or anyone's?" Retaliated Kurt, shaking Mr. Schuester's arm off of him as he stared right back the man, or as much of him as the boy could make out in the low lit room. The lyrics Puck would sing would recount stories of torment and pain he'd inflicted on others. The melodies that would ever come out of that guitar would just be their screams, and included somewhere amongst them all, were Kurt's.

"Everyone is worth something, Kurt, even Puckerman," replied Mr. Schuester lowly, wrapping an arm around Kurt's shoulders and swiveling him round to face the stage where Puck was now raising his head, his hazel eyes blindly looking out into the darkness as if searching through a deep chasm for someone who wasn't there, but with the sparkle that spoke of hope that there was someone there, that Kurt was there. He was there. "He's come to sing to you, Kurt. Please, go to him..."


	14. Silhouette

Descending the steps, Kurt made his way further and further down into the auditorium, his footsteps hitting the ground with feather light strokes that emitted no sound, that gave away no indication that he was there. His eyes had been solely fixed to Puck's figure. He'd not bothered with anything else on the stage like the baby powder white colored spot that shone tight to the jock's mid chest with a champagne shaded background that offered warmth, complimenting Puck's beige undertones. He'd just watched as the jock had lowered his own gaze down to the ground, supposing there was only so much rejection one could take from a room that left him feeling completely alone, except for what he was holding in his hands right now.

Kurt took in the acoustic guitar currently being brought into Puck's chest as if it was the only support left to him. It was of classical design; fawn colored and spoke of excellent craftsmanship. Kurt had the distinct sense that it was very dear to the boy, very dear, and that all the songs that had ever been strummed on it recounted memories that Kurt could now see reflected in the polished wood. Puck when he was a child, being given the instrument for his birthday. Puck when his father had left him soon after, asking why? Why? Why? Puck on his first day of high school, giving his first flirting glance at a girl of a beauteous nature and Puck kissing his first boy, a boy worth singing about, singing a song to, a boy named Kurt Hummel.

_I'm tired of waking up in tears, cause I can't put to bed these phobias and fears_   
_I'm new to this grief I can't explain, but I'm no stranger to the heartache and the pain_   
_The fire I began is burning me alive, but I know better than to leave and let it die..._

Kurt halted in his tracks as thick calloused fingers descended onto metal tuned strings and let out a chord that rang out into the auditorium. It was then followed by another chord and then another chord, constructing a melodic introduction to a song with a slow but steady beat that soon progressed into the first verse. With the first lyrical line that was uttered from Puck's lips, Kurt knew this was an apology. Words of regret, words he wished he could tack back. The content wasn't very original. Somewhat generic, recycling the same material over and over again but to a different tune, yet this felt different. Perhaps because it was Puck singing to him or perhaps he was bringing meaning back into worn words that now felt brand new.

Shuffling into the nearest aisle and sitting ever so quietly down into the seat closest to him, Kurt continued to listen, this time to Puck's singing voice. It was an emotive, ringing, powerful, clarion, and a somewhat heroic voice that had enough similarity to his speaking voice to know it was Puck singing, yet still managed to keep a significant amount of contrast to his usual tone for conversation. From what Kurt could make out, the jock had a spinto or perhaps a dramatic tenor vocal range that also held a heavier vocal weight that could be somewhat 'pushed' to dramatic climaxes with less strain than a someone with a lighter-voice like himself. It gave Puck a rich dark tonal color to his voice whilst retaining a certain amount a steely timbre.

_I'm a silhouette asking every now and then, "Is it over yet? Will I ever feel again?"_   
_I'm a silhouette chasing rainbows on my own, but the more I try to move on, the more I feel alone_   
_So I watch the summer stars to lead me home..._

The song wasn't so much an apology as it was an admittal that what Puck had done had not only wounded Kurt, but also himself. Kurt couldn't help but think it would mean more if the jock knew he was there, that he'd be able to sing whilst looking at him right in the eye. It would be the ideal, the right thing to do, yet he didn't move from his seat. He stayed right where he was, looking up at a boy who both regretted every single wrongful act and derogatory homophobic slur he'd inflicted on him, as if all this guilt and anxiety had accumulated into one giant wrecking ball of angst inside him, beating him down. Puck had a lot to account for, but that didn't pose a problem as he strummed away at strings freshly plucked from his beating heart.

At the thought of heartstrings, Kurt's attention was brought back to Puck's guitar or more precisely, how he was playing it. He knew that boys who played acoustically whilst singing of heartache and emotional turmoil were known to be 'chick magnets', that just the image of a masculine macho man exposing his sensitive side, baring his soul out in a serenade and begging someone, anyone to make him feel or even love again, was enough to make them weak at the knees and break their hearts with the smash of porcelain and china. Yet for Kurt, it wasn't the same. Though he could understand the appeal, he was made of tougher stuff. His own porcelain heart had been glazed, strengthening it, making it more resistant to sonic love traps.

_I'm sick of the past I can't erase, a jumble of footprints and hasty steps I can't retrace_   
_The mountain of things I still regret is a vile reminder that I would rather just forget (no matter where I go)_   
_The fire I began is burning me alive, but I know better than to leave and let it die..._

As the song progressed into the final chorus, Kurt began to wonder how much thought Puck had put into this song. It had to have meant a lot, yet the lyrics were associated more with the jock himself than with Kurt, but Kurt was alright with that. Admitting you'd done wrong was the first step and Puck was bent on elaborating his feelings through music. Kurt liked to think the boy had spent hours over the past week watching countless music covers on YouTube in search for the perfect song that held within it the right chord progressions and lyrical structure, downloading scores in the privacy of his own bedroom and practicing them under the cover of darkness, just strongly hoping all the while that his efforts would not be in vain.

Swiveling round in his seat, Kurt looked behind him only to notice that Mr. Schuester was not there. He was nowhere to be seen in any seat or by the doors they'd both entered from. That was odd. He'd thought this was supposed to be an audition, or maybe the teacher had heard enough, had made a decision and had left them both alone. Now Kurt had the distinct impression that after the song would end, he'd have to go to Puck and offer him feedback, or in Kurt's own case, thanks. Would the jock simply nod his head as if it was nothing, something he'd had to get off his chest to make it 'cool' between them? Or would he touch Kurt again, take him in his arms and cradle him just as he was cradling the guitar in his hands?

_I'm a silhouette asking every now and then, "Is it over yet? Will I ever smile again?"_   
_I'm a silhouette chasing rainbows on my own, but the more I try to move on, the more I feel alone_   
_So I watch the summer stars to lead me home, I watch the summer stars to lead me home_

As the final note left his tremulous lips, Puck closed his eyes and let it fly out into the auditorium, leaving it to fade and die out as he was once again reacquainted with the silence all around him. He felt alone again. He knew he had been all this time, but at least while singing he could picture Kurt's face and how he'd always imagined the boy would react. Oh, how he would react well. Smiling and coming up to him, resting a hand on his shoulder that gently squeezed down onto his shirt and right into his skin, Kurt's way of saying thank you, with maybe, just maybe, a kiss on the cheek, or whatever. Puck really had been imagining things. No one was here for pity's sake. He'd given his best performance yet, and no one had been here to hear it.

Perhaps, he didn't deserve an audience. Maybe it was just as well. If anyone had known what he'd done to Kurt they'd have done the right thing by throwing tomatoes at him and booing him off the stage, leaving him to stumble off into the wings in disgrace. Now that would have been theater exit worthy of his crimes. Mr. Schuester hadn't even returned. The teacher had positioned him on stage, had set up the lighting system for him and had left him to tune his guitar, all the while telling him to take as much time as he'd need before he'd sing. However, the only person who'd taken up that time had been Mr. Schuester himself. He hadn't come back and he hadn't brought Kurt along with him. No one wanted anything to do with him. No one.

There was no surprise. He wouldn't have wanted anything to do with him either after what had happened with Kurt. Back then, he'd been so furious, he'd believed Kurt had deserved what he'd got, but once his temper had settled down, only then had he grasped the full gravity of what he'd done. He'd sexually assaulted Kurt for the third time, he'd thrown a slur at him and he'd ended this savage streak with a death threat. Puck had actually threatened to kill him. What had got into him? How could he have done what he'd done, said what he'd said? It was as if he couldn't believe he was capable of that level of anger, and he'd reached it just because Kurt had pushed him away, and for good reason. It all made him sick to his stomach.

As a result, these past few days had been a torment. He'd watched Kurt brush off what had happened between them in favor of living his school life to the fullest and not caring at all what Puck did with himself. To Kurt, the jock could crawl up his own ass and die just as long as he was nowhere near him and it had hurt Puck. The stabs of pain at the bottom of his belly had been sharp enough to attest to that, and worst part of it was, he knew he deserved it. He'd forced a boy into a sham of kissing lessons only to bring said boy down in his own home, his haven, his safe retreat free from the concentration camp like life of McKinley, a life Puck had dictated and had brought in like some deadly virus. He was disgusted with himself.

Deciding in the end that all of this had just been a waste of time, despite it's therapeutic advantages that had soothed him for just three minutes, Puck made to leave. He stood up from the stool, its wooden feet dragging sharply against the floor and was about to pack his guitar into his case when out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a figure over by the top of the stage steps. He'd been so surprised, his heart catapulting from every one of its artery restraints, that he'd stumbled right back into his stool. The grip on his guitar had loosened, he'd nearly dropped it whilst the stool itself had almost clattered to the ground with a bang, yet fortunately with quick reflexes, the jock had managed to settle them both, except himself.

Kurt was here. He was standing right there, his alabaster face poking out from the darkness almost like a phantasm or a pin up doll mask that seemed to float atop a body slowly bathing in light as it approached. Puck did not move a muscle. He stayed perfectly still, the grip so tight on the neck of his guitar it was as if he were strangling it. He didn't what to do. He didn't know what to say. Although he'd probably said enough. He'd had better remain quiet as footsteps from white canvas plimsoll shoes came to stop a few meters away with eyes that eyed his open guitar case, his carelessly discarded Letterman jacket, his guitar itself before finally landing on him, a gaze that felt on his heated skin like spring rain on lukewarm nights.

"I heard it, Puck. I heard you," began Kurt, taking in how the jock's eyes widened widly. Kurt had heard him sing? Where had he been? Puck hadn't seen him. Then again the spotlight had been on him meaning he'd seen no one even if they had been there, which he'd assumed there hadn't been. He'd been wrong. Evidently Kurt, the stealthy puma cat that he was, had snuck in undetected, and alright, so Mr. Schuester hadn't returned, screw him, Kurt had, and that was the important thing.

"Did you... like it?" Asked Puck anxiously, almost too anxiously. He'd spent quite some time scouring the internet as well as several song books about apologizing. He'd even kept the radio on next to him tuned to the music channel should ever an appropriate song play on the air, and after much searching he'd settled on a tune that was not only easy to play but had lyrics of a somber colored nature that perfectly articulated what he felt. He could only hope that he had done it justice.

"Yes, Puck. You did good," nodded Kurt, watching as the jock's chest seemed to inflate, powering a small smile onto his tanned features. 'Silhouette' overall had been rather stirring and moving, one of the most sentimental, introspective and bittersweet songs Kurt had heard in a long time, with lyrics speaking of Puck, a boy who felt anxious, heartbroken, alone, and struggling with regret, but encouraged that life would not always be that way, just as long as Kurt released him off his guilt.

"Thanks... 'cos it was for you, Kurt," replied Puck, taking his guitar neck in both his hands and wringing it nervously as if he were trying to strangle it yet again. If he wasn't careful he'd up with several wildly out of tune strings, but that wasn't the point. Despite the song recounting his own inner turmoil and despite it relieving him of pressure building inside of him, he had done this primarily for Kurt, and he had to make the boy get that, to make him see even for just a little while. He owed him.

"I know you sang for me, Puck. Don't worry, I got that."

"Good, because I'm so sorry, Kurt. For everything."

"Is that what you were trying to say?"

"I have too much to say to you, Kurt, and not enough notes to sing them in."

"Why sing them? Why not... say?" Asked Kurt as Puck stared back at him. Why had he sung to Kurt, when he indeed could have apologized with words? He never played his guitar or sang two notes out of his room, let alone school. Even his own mother and sister didn't hear him sing often and even when they did, it only came out muffled behind a locked door with a 'Keep Out!' sticker he'd attached when he was thirteen. Then again, it just rendered singing to Kurt now all the more special.

"Would you have listened to me like you have done now if I had?" Asked Puck, taking in how Kurt stared at him for a long while before shifting his gaze away and into the auditorium. It was a non-verbal reaction that seemed to cause Puck's now inflated chest to cave in for he knew the answer. Of course Kurt wouldn't have listened. The jock's crimes were too severe to pardon so soon no matter if he sang it or said it, but at least he'd made a good call by singing, for Kurt was listening.

"I'm not going to lie to you Puck, I wouldn't have listened. I would have walked away and not given you the time of day. In fact, I almost did just now," answered Kurt, catching the flash of hurt in Puck's as quickly as caught hair and dust in old sepia tinted film. "Mr. Schue brought me over from Cheerio practice but when I first saw you, I tried to leave. I didn't even want to look at you let alone listen to you, yet Mr. Schue stopped me. So I stayed, listened and that's why I'm here, still listening."

"You know I regret everything bad I've done to you, Kurt. You can't say you listened to the song and not know that I fucking regret ever hurting you in any way," burst Noah, his hand flying out and taking hold of Kurt's wrist as the pale boy flinched and took a step back, fearing another assault. Puck deserved that, yet it only pressed him to continue, to work harder, as his grip on Kurt's arm loosened into a nurturing hold, soft, tender. "You've got to understand, Kurt. You... you must. I'm sorry."

"Well in any case Puck, you performed well. I think Mr. Schue's going to want you in Glee Club, we could do with your voice," rambled Kurt, breaking out from an extended silence that had followed after Puck's apology and as he pulled his arm out of the jock's hand, taking another step back as if he were about to leave, he smiled politely. He had the Cheerios to return to and he'd long surpassed the five minute max, yet as he was about to leave Puck to his packing, Kurt stopped.

The jock was now taking a timid step towards him, releasing one hand from his guitar and allowing it to loll from his other as he closed the distance between them, mere inches separating their chests. The proximity was close but familiar. The gaze from the spotlight cast shadows across their figures and the dust that was caught in its illumination seemed to float in the air like glitter on the wind. It was almost as if they were performing a love scene. Puck had sung his tear inducing number, Kurt had appeared, acknowledged it rather cordially and made to leave, but no decent scene of romance ended this way. There was chemistry, magnetism, allure. By God, they had the stage to themselves. In that moment, the spotlight shone for them.

Kurt now knew there was no need to run away from Puck. His trust for the boy may not have been favorable, but at least he knew he no longer posed a threat to him. Puck was harmless to him now. No hand would raise itself to come down on him, no taunt could spewing out of that mouth and hopefully any form of communication between them would now be civilized and courteous. It now made standing before the jock that much easier, and besides, it wasn't as if this was the closest they'd ever been to each other. Puck's arms had wreathed themselves around his waist and brought him into his chest so often during their lessons; it had been as if he'd been forging a figure of them both out of porcelain, infusing them forever as lovers.

At this, Kurt began to wonder what it would be like to keep such an appropinquity with Puck for that long, an idea they were experiencing right about now. For several minutes, they just looked at each other, examining each other's features. Puck still proudly boasted a masterstroke of a chiseled, carven face and while Kurt had branded these conventionally handsome traits as bland and boring, he now viewed them as a pinnacle of classic American masculinity. With Puck, whilst he'd always thought Kurt was a looker in a 60s Carnarby Street mannequin sort of way, he now stood to appreciate the boy more as a magnum opus of androgynous beauty, a striking concoction of masculinity and femininity that stole the eyes, just stole them.

Now this was a love scene, a scene of romance. Though they weren't doing anything but looking into each other's eyes, they had captured the moment and held it within their gazes. It was very simple, old school intimacy. For Kurt, it let him in on every other one of Puck's subtle features, like his scent, an intricate blend of black basil, warm cognac and sensual wood mixed in with sweet body odor and light sweat, but not pungent sweat, the sweat of man, intoxicating and powerful. To Kurt's embarrassment, it had his taste buds humming, his tongue wavering restlessly ready to lick and as he continued subtly taking in this scent as if feeding himself off of it, Puck lowered his head and angled his neck as if to grant him better access.

Kurt blinked, his eyes going wide. He thought he'd been very discreet whilst sniffing, as discreet as a bunny sniffing around its new rabbit hutch with silent intakes of air that had been undetectable. However, as it turned out, Puck hadn't lowered his head to grant him easier access to smell his aroma higher in concentration, but to rather intimately, affectionately and ever so softly nuzzle his nose against Kurt's pale ear, slowly tracing the circular shell in a loop like motion, before continuing downward to his neck, the stubble on his chin lightly grazing over fair skin. Yet it didn't last long. Growing uncomfortable, Kurt pulled away, the jock's lidded and lazy eyes blinking as if he'd just woken up from bed. It was too soon for that. Too soon.

"Sorry," apologised Puck, relieving the space between them and giving Kurt air to breathe as they both averted their eyes to the ground. Now it was awkward. Neither one of them had anything thing to say. Maybe silence had ruled for too long. Kurt wanted to leave, but he didn't know in what manner to so that it wouldn't come off as if Puck had scared him away whereas the jock wished also to leave, but only to bury himself in a hole in the ground. He just kept on coming on too strong. Fuck!

"It's okay," replied Kurt quietly, bringing a hand up to feel the shell of his ear, the patch of skin where rough stubble had grazed upon its surface. It tingled. That was the only word he could think of to describe the feeling. His fingers just picked up a tingle, and it made him smile, a smile Puck registered in a flash. In response, the jock's belly felt coated in a balm, his lips puckered slightly as he exhaled in relief, a silent 'phew' escaping, until he felt safe enough to look Kurt in the eye again.

"You've got pretty eyes," muttered Puck softly, Kurt recovering from his smile to see the jock indeed looking straight into his eyes with his own hazel orbs glazed, dilated, as if he'd plunged into a cavernous lagoon with no wish to resurface. Kurt smiled. Puck had noticed his eyes had changed in the spotlight. They had a tendency to do that, to flicker into a Technicolor spiral, a trait passed down from his mother, who'd often explained to him why he'd always had such beautiful eyes.

"It's because they're shaped like a sole."

"Like a what?"

"A sole, the fish. This end by my nose is the head of the sole, and the upper curve is the back, and the lower line here is the flat belly."

"That's... cool..."

"It's what my mother used to tell me. We shared the same eyes, though I always thought hers were prettier. They were so beautiful," smiled Kurt fondly, his memories now flitting back to Autumn mornings when both he and his mother had stood in front of her wall lengh mirror and pulled funny faces at each other. Yet, all Kurt had seen, all he'd ever seen had been her eyes. "She used to say the color of my eyes were unique to the waters the soles swam in. That's what made them so blue."

"That's what makes you so beautiful," replied Puck truthfully, regretting what he'd said almost immediatly as he took in those widened aqua eyes. There was no need to panic, no need to worry. He hadn't meant it, not a word, except he had. He thought Kurt was just average looking, at best cute. Fuck no, you idiot. He was beautiful. He wanted to blow past this, pack up and get out of there, but no, he wanted, wanted, Kurt's reply, a reply that came a lot sooner than he'd anticipated.

Raising himself on tip toes, Kurt rested his hands on Puck's shoulders as he brought his lips near enough to stroke flesh and whispered rather breathily, moaning huskily, 'thank you', his nose rounding the shell of the jock's ear as his tongue licked both words into existence before disappearing. Opening his eyes once again, Puck gulped, his Adam's apple almost finding itself in his now parched mouth. The hand holding the neck of his guitar was quivering slightly, shaking notes out of the instrument. His nipples were erect, his toes curled in his socks and as he shuffled towards to face the auditorium, the champagne tint in the spotlight smirked down at him. So this is what it was like when Kurt flirted. It was exhilarating.

Now as he recovered from his whipped like state, he packed his guitar and slid on his Letterman jacket. Here went nothing. He really was going to do this. He was going to join Glee club and not because it now gave him an excuse to sing outside the confines of his room, but because it was a change, and with change came opportunity. He'd encounter people he'd made fun of in the past, but genuine people who weren't Hollister robots. If the chance came, he'd even be able to sing to Kurt again, maybe even perform a duologue with him and to hell with what anybody else thought, what the school would say or what Ben Israel would write on his gossip website for he and Kurt were now friends, friends or something, or so he hoped.

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

Lights, camera, action! The clapperboard was set to snap on Brittany's music video in a few days time and everything had been organized on a strict back to back schedule. A huge book filled with the blonde's notes on the project had been compiled, detailing everything from the variegated mise en scene, the use of Steadicam for the cinemotography, which software best suited for editing and finally the music itself. She'd collaborated heavily with Artie and the AV club designing an elaborately annotated storyboard for each verse and chorus of the song and she'd choreographed a rigorous routine of a raw and heavy nature that encompassed both the lyrical content of sex and the melodious image of a stomping party.

However, as progression had remained constant, hardly faltering and issues resolving rather quickly, Brittany was dealt a serious blow when one late afternoon during a rehearsal for the video, one of the male Cheerios, who'd been in the process of lifting Quinn right into the air, had misjudged a vital move, eventually landing himself in the nurse's office with a sprained ankle. Numerous ligaments had been torn, inflammation had throbbed in pain like no other and the nurse had broken the news to the boy that under no such circumstances should he apply pressure to the affected area, consequently removing him from Brittany's video and the Cheerios with an uncomfortable air brace that wouldn't heal his foot for another two weeks.

A grey cloud had hovered over Brittany's project, slowing down headway with talk of postponing filming until the male Cheerio had recovered. Yet, the nurse had still stated that even after the foot had healed; no strenuous activity was advised, upsetting Brittany even more. She hadn't wanted to delay production, primarily because the weather forecast had only guaranteed sunny weather for the next few days. They were lucky to have any at this time of year in Lima. As a result, the blonde had decided to film around the dance sequences for the time being, filming the verses and the bridge that required no choreography, but lip synching beauty shots. Yet, she could only avoid the choruses for so long, and so long, was now.

There was no replacement, they were one member short and rechoreographing the choreography for a now uneven number of dancers would take days, time they simply didn't have. For Kurt, it was an unpleasant sight to have to see Brittany's face sour by the day, the brightness in her once blithesome aura now disappearing to leave behind an appearance that only aged her beyond her years. He wanted to help, despite finding it now difficult to keep up with his studies, Glee, the Cheerios, and the music video. In fact, he'd had to pull out of Home Economics club due to time constraints, news he'd had to break to his father when he'd no longer brought back a Tupperware box of food after school every Friday. He'd not been very happy.

Putting aside the sense of pride that arose from knowing Burt very much enjoyed and looked forward to his rather basic cooking, Kurt remained disheartened when thinking of Brittany. Her predicament had left her so down, that in the end; he had taken it upon himself to deal with it. How he was going to do that, he didn't know. Most boys at McKinley weren't exactly real movers. In fact, the closer one looked at them, the more one would be surprised by how much inelegance they possessed, rending Kurt's search much harder. He'd just have to keep his eyes peeled for any boy who had a sense of rhythm in his step, retained a decent amount of posture when moving and who had the arm power to lift Quinn Fabray without difficulty.

The search, however, was eventually made officially over one day in World History class, when their teacher, Mrs. Hagberg, had wished to present to them all a PowerPoint presentation on the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution. The projector, that was attached to the ceiling, had not been responding to the remote and Kurt had offered to turn it on manually. However, after a couple jocks that he shared the class with had kicked one of its legs, he'd lost his balance and fallen, only to land in a pair of well-built arms that had caught him with enough support that had only left him feeling a little shaken, but safe. The jocks had sneered, the girls had giggled, and Kurt had found himself blushing before his 'hero' - Puck.

He and Puck had not spoken often since the jock's performance in the auditorium. They'd catch glimpses of each other around school, in class and in the hall, but that was it. Everything was assumed to be 'cool' between them, but they sensed the tension. There was something there. It was somewhat heightened when Mr. Schuester had been proud to welcome Puck to the Glee club not too long ago. He and Kurt were singing and dancing twice every week after school, often in close proximity to each other and the pale boy cursed their uncomfortable tension for not considering the jock as a possible replacement in Brittany's video, for Puck had what it took and after what had happened in history class, he was now sure to approach him.

However, it had taken courage to ask Puck one day after Glee practice to meet him after school on Friday, much more than necessary. All he'd had to do was say for him to come to the dance studio in light, comfortable clothing and that he had a favor to ask of him. He hadn't revealed it right away of course, afraid he'd scare Puck off with the idea of dancing, (something quite a number of boys had a fear of), so he'd settled with as a little information as possible, as well as having thanked him for catching him in history class. The jock, welcoming the thanks and pleased that Kurt was talking to him as if they were on friendly terms, had agreed instantly, almost cutting Kurt off mid sentence as if he hadn't cared what it was for. He'd be there.

Now as Kurt peered through the window strip in the window, he was relieved to know Puck was here and not afraid to show it. The jock stood by the large wall-length mirror on the opposite side of the room, wearing a set of battleship grey sweatpants and a charcoal black tank top. His feet were bare and Kurt suppressed an eye roll as he witnessed the boy flex his assets for the mirror to admire, his proud face smirking as he approved of his 'Puckerman Guns'. Yet, Kurt couldn't stand there being ungrateful. It was thanks to those guns that Brittany wasn't down two Cheerios. He could have hit in his head and seriously injured himself if his 'hero' hadn't caught him. It was because of Puck that this could have been made possible.

Not that watching the jock attempt to woo an inanimate object wasn't fun, (he'd be having sex with it soon enough), Kurt thought it best not to dawdle any longer. He straightened up, opened the door and entered, the sound bringing Puck out of his flexing routine and catching sight of him in the mirror, before turning around and grinning in embarrassment, as if he'd been caught performing a guilty pleasure which was odd, considering he did it all the time to girls. He resorted instead to watch as Kurt offered him a small "hi", dropping his bag by the mirror alongside his and coming to stand before him wearing blood red yoga pants and a matching hoodie, the seams of both sculpting the lines of his body and enhancing his shape.

"It is so good of you to come without asking why, and now you're here I don't know where to start," began Kurt, threading his fingers in front of him as Puck dove his hands into his sweat pant pockets. The brunet supposed he could come right out and say what he had to say, but thinking it just came off as such an abrupt way to begin a conversation. It would be better to ease into it, maybe soften this god damn tension that wasn't going to help if they were to be moving around later on.

"How about you tell what you need me for? The favor you want to ask of me?" Suggested Puck, shrugging and pouting his bottom lip that had Kurt smiling into giggles, a small batch of them running like waves in the air. In response, the jock's grin widened, yet his brows furrowed slightly as he watched Kurt descend to the ground. He leaned his back against the mirror and patted the area of the wooden floor next to him invitingly as he shifted their bags away to make room for him.

"Good idea, but before I go into any of that, I just wanted to know... how you were, Puck," replied Kurt good-naturedly, the jock coming down to sit next to him with his legs propped up and his elbows coming to sit comfortably on his knees. He was more than happy to answer the question, because honestly, not only was his school life changing significantly, but being asked such a thing from Kurt was like the gift of the day. He hadn't thought they'd talk with ease again, or even talk at that.

"I'm cool. Life's cool," answered Puck, grinning. "Glee's good, even though half of the people in there have it in for me. I'm still getting a little heat from the guys on the team for being in it, but they're laying off now that I'm going all hell on their asses in practice. It's more satisfying than doing it to dweebs, a greater challenge, makes for good cardio. I got a C+ in our last World History paper. Would have done better if I hadn't been thinking of when I caught you in class. Man, that was a close call."

"It was, although I think you should have left it there. Punching Jase Brandon in the face for knocking my table was going a bit far, even if watching you do it felt amazing," sighed Kurt happily, leaning his head against the mirror as he looked out into the room. Puck had earned himself a detention along with Jase for his outburst, though in the end for Puck, it had been totally worth it. He'd clocked an asshole and now had Kurt sighing in pleasure over it. Best decision ever. "So how's the family?"

"They're all good," answered Puck as he nodded. "Life at home hasn't really changed all that much. My mom's bummed out she didn't get the promotion she was up for at work. She's the personal assistant to one fucked up boss. I mean the pay's terrible, but she's sticking with it 'cos she says it 'opens a lot of doors' to go into journalism. That's what she wants to do, and my lil sis, Sarah, she's bummed out as well, but only because she wasn't there to see me punching Brandon for you."

"Why did you punch Brandon for me?"

"I don't know, he... made to hurt you, so I hurt him."

"Why?"

"'Cos... isn't that what you do, you know, for your friends?"

"You have to ask that?" Muttered Kurt as Puck made to reply, but stared back at him instead. It was as if the jock had never had a friend before, or a 'real' one anyway. Kurt supposed the boys Puck hung around were never the ones to be protected, for they were the aggressors themselves and high and mighty enough to scare off potential threats. They had each other's backs, but not in the same way Puck now had Kurt's. Their 'friendship' was different as Kurt went on. "So, we're friends now?"

"Don't you want to be?" Murmured Puck just as quietly, his hazel eyes never straying from Kurt as he waited anxiously for a reply. He feared that once Kurt had thanked him for his apology, they'd return to their own separate lives to have nothing to do with each other. They ran in different circles, their interests were rather far set, but they weren't going to sacrifice a possible friendship for skin-deep reasons, were they? It wasn't as if Puck was asking for them to be 'Best Friends Forever.'

"Well, I..." began Kurt, shuffling so as to face the jock head on. He didn't want to let Puck in on the fact he had yet to fully forgive him for what he'd done to him. It would take time for the 'soon' factor of the torment to wear off, but they were getting there, especially with the help from the jock himself. Singing to him, apologizing to him, acting as his 'hero' in World History class. They were baby steps to the beginning of a beautiful friendship. "... well alright Puck, let's give it a go."

"Damn right we will," grinned Puck, gently nudging Kurt's shoulder with his own as the pale boy returned his smile. Kurt was earning himself the whole friendship package from Puck - loyalty, trust and protection, for being friends with a jock did have its advantages, and it wasn't as if this aspect was going to be a chore. The sense of being needed and aiding someone did wonders to a man's pride, worth and dominance and Puck was no exception. "So what do you need me for here, Kurt?"

"Okay, well I don't know if you know this or not, but Brittany's directing a music video."

"I know, Kurt. It's all she ever goes on about in Glee club."

"Sure, and everything's been going well, until recently."

"Why? What happened?"

"Well, one of the male Cheerios had an accident during a dance rehearsal and he's now out of the project with a sprained ankle, which means we're one dancer short with no one to replace him with," began Kurt, his voice clear. "If we don't find anyone soon, Brittany's going to have to scrap the video and she's already filmed half of it already. All this time would have gone to waste, which is a shame because this could have been really good. So I was wondering, it you wouldn't mind-"

"Being in the video? You don't have to say anymore Kurt, I knew where you were going with this the moment you went on about what happened to that Cheerio dude," interrupted Puck, shifting slightly as Kurt's eye shape seemed to get rounder and rounder, as if like a kitten imploring their owner for their bowl of full cream milk. It made it harder for Puck to say no, but he had to. "I've got to break to you Kurt, I can't dance. I just can't. I'm sorry. Isn't there anyone else you could ask?"

"There isn't anybody else to ask. I've scoured the entire school from top to bottom, but most of the boys here have as much grace as a troll. Are you sure you can't do it? Please," begged Kurt, Puck watching as the pale boy's irises seemed to increase in saturation, as if blue dye had been poured in and left to cloud it into an even more striking shade of the color. It was hypnotizing and in that moment Puck almost felt like not rejecting Kurt at all, no shaking of the head, no saying 'no', just 'yes'.

"Kurt, do you see someone like me having any 'grace'? I'm one of the trolls, but a hot troll," added Puck, his hands gesturing down to his body as if it spoke for itself. "Look, you know the problem I had with kissing. I had shit spacial awareness, even when I had my contacts in, and speaking of my eyes, it doesn't matter as much if I hurt someone by accident in football, but dancing? I'll have every one joining that injured Cheerio dude in a cast before we even film the video. I just won't do."

"Sure you will, Puck. You're the running back for a reason. You're light on your feet, you've got good instincts and that swagger of yours, come on. You can't sit there there and tell me you don't have rhythm. You know all the girls will say otherwise," smiled Kurt, watching as Puck chuckled as if relenting that without a little rhythm, there was no sexy. "I mean you're the most nimble, agile and quickest boy I've ever met, and I should know, you've chased me down many a time."

"Sorry about that. Maybe sometime I could chase you without having it end with me stealing from you or forcing you to teach me something," chuckled Puck happily as Kurt took this flirtatious comment as a door to a rather dangerous game. He lifted his hand and began to trace his finger over the jock's arm nearest to him, outlining as he went down, the rock hard biceps that bulged and the thick tanned veins that traveled all the way down to his ever so masculine hands. What a tank of a body.

"There is another reason I came to you, Puck," began Kurt innocently. "You're the hottest boy here who would have no problem at all drawing in all the female viewers. Just think of it. All those girls eye-fucking you through their computer screens, biting their lips at the way you'd thrust your hips and all those girls who would weaken at the knees at the mere sight of you afterwards. Trust me, if you do this, there won't be a girl in Lima or in Ohio even who wouldn't want you to take them to bed."

"Really? You think I'm the hottest boy?"

"Of all the things I just said, you focus on that?"

"Well I already knew girls had the hots for me, I just didn't know you did."

"Just take the compliment already. It's the girls you'll need to focus on."

"What if they're not the ones I'd want to focus on?" Asked Puck in all seriousness, the teasing nature of the conversation coming abruptly to a halt as his eyes skated over Kurt's now struck face. The pale boy's hand had frozen on his bicep, there to stay, until with a loss of contact, it was removed, but leaving a white handprint in its place. Kurt had squeezed down on it so hard at those last words; it had left a mark, one that quickly darkened as it melded into the milk coffee all around.

It wasn't that Puck wasn't enticed by what the brunet had said. Never in his life had he had trouble attracting the opposite sex, but after what Kurt had said, he'd never have to work to get a girl into bed again. It would be stupid of him not to go through with it. The chance of hours upon hours of sweet pleasure with chicks as hot for him as the sun itself until his bedroom windows steamed, well, that was pretty much a fantasy come true for any straight guy. Yet this was a fantasy that in his case had already become a reality. He'd already slept with every good-looking girl in the school at least twice and he'd already slept with half the leopard printed bikini wearing MILFs in Lima. There was nothing more this 'fantasy' could offer him.

"I mean um... I meant to say I can give a shot," replied Puck, yet as he cleared his throat, he couldn't help but think of Kurt seeing him up on that screen erotically moving his body to the beat, his muscles straining when he'd lift a girl up and his view of that raw sexual magnetism that was going to be exaggerated three-fold after it all. "After what you did for me, what with teaching me to kiss and everything, I feel like I owe you this. I guess I wouldn't be a good friend if I didn't."

"Okay, now I feel like I've guilt tripped you into doing this."

"No Kurt, it's fine. I was meaning to make it up to you somehow anyway."

"Really? Because I don't want to force you. It's just that you were the video's only hope."

"Well when you say it like that, I'd be a dick if I didn't say yes, Kurt. It's just the dancing that's getting to me."

"Puck, many sportsmen, including football players, have studied dance. It's nothing to be ashamed about and it's done wonders for their balance and coordination. This may be beneficial to you," assured Kurt as he brandished a pointed finger at the jock's chest. Kurt doubted Puck would need much work, what with his high agility and physical dexterity. In fact, he estimated a total of three or four sessions should about do the trick before they'd perfect the whole thing.

Yet, it was this uncertainty in the boy's eyes that was the thing to worry about. If he could teach Puck how to kiss and get the muscles in his jaw working harder than any piston in a locomotive, he could teach him to dance, or break a leg trying. "I wasn't a dancer before joining the Cheerios," Kurt continued. "That 'Can't Speak French' performance can attest to that, and you should know; you laughed at it, but I trained my ass off and now I can do the freaking splits. See?"

"Yeah...I-I see..." stuttered Puck as Kurt, without much time and hassle, stood up and lifted his leg right up into the air where it hovered for five-seconds before coming back down to the ground again. Whether he was aware of it or not, Kurt knew how to get a guy on his side. After all, men were like plants. All one had to do was stretch like a pole dancer, as they did in their masturbation fantasies, and they were on board. Either that or fuck their brains out; it wasn't that complicated.

For Puck, it was very much the same thing. The first time he'd seen Kurt perform in assembly, his eyes had been riveted to the boy's presence. He hadn't even been paying attention to the sniggers of his fellow jocks or the other skimpily clad Glee club members for that matter because Kurt, damn him and his genuinely impressive movement of body, had been  _distractingly_  beautiful, as if he had been a mere back dancer, yet all eyes had been on him. Now however, the jock tried not to let anything penetrate his armored exterior. He fought with all his might not to allow a single puncture wound to breach his defenses as Kurt looked back at him as if bringing your leg up to your head was the easiest thing in the world. Easy? Bullshit.

"Er, Kurt," began Puck, picking himself up from the floor and coming to stand in front of Kurt as the boy rested his hands on his hips. He'd put himself up for this and he didn't want to disappoint, but there were limits on what his body could do, no matter how agile he was on the football pitch. "You're not telling me I'm going to have to learn to do that, am I? I would have thought I'd just learn the moves and work on my biceps, you know, to get in shape with the lifting. Makes sense right?"

"Of course, Puck, I'm not asking you to contort your body 180 degrees so that you can kiss your ass from both directions; I'm just trying to prove a point. All I'm saying is that if you put the work in, and not that having a fit body and sense of rhythm doesn't help, but if you work hard and keep at it then you can learn how to dance. Trust me," assured Kurt, smiling. "Besides, I know you can't wait for the other 'benefits' to come knocking on your bedroom door, if you know what I mean."

Erupting into a set of teasing giggles that quickly put behind the sense of discomfort that had arisen from Puck's comment earlier on, Kurt shoved the jock's shoulder light heardedly in a joke like fashion as Puck had previously done to him. He wouldn't normally have done such a thing (what it being more of a straight guy form of affection), but he was so happy the jock had agreed to participate, even if he was doing this more for Kurt than for Brittany, and even though he'd persuaded Puck with a promise that he would end of with mountains upon mountains of headboard-banging rompage to satisfy that apparently insatiable libido of his, which did deep down disgust Kurt a little, he was still grateful for his cooperation.

As Kurt withdrew his iPhone from his bag, approached the stereo and adjusted the volume and equalizer on the player, wishing not to be responsible for broken eardrums or smashed mirrors by the end, Puck brought his hand to the back of his neck and scratched it. Kurt had caught onto his earlier comment. He'd understood what the jock had been getting at and he'd almost flinched in response. Puck had taken their minor flirtation too far. They'd only become officially friends a few minutes before hand and already he'd been hinting at being more than that? It could have been passed off as a joke if he hadn't been so serious about it, but he had and there resumed the tension, this time, sexual. Oh how this one burned. It burned.

What was going on? What was with Puck? Why had a stab of hurt pierced his belly upon catching his rejection mirrored in Kurt's eyes, how the pale boy was now ignoring it in favor of getting down to business? It might have been different if Kurt had been oblivious to what he'd meant, but no, Puck had seen the tremors of fear in those irises, the very same tremors he'd seen when he'd snuggled Kurt's neck and called him 'beautiful' in the auditorium. It was a sight he knew very well from his days as a bully and it only pained him more when he came to the realization that Kurt was still afraid of him, but not of his skin that he wore for everyone to see, but what was bubbling up beyond the beige, like a hot spring, feelings of another kind.


	15. Dance

Kurt had never been branded a hero before, or a savior or a guardian of any kind, or at least not over tasks that were no more than menial little chores around the house. His father would occasionally refer to him as his own little 'white knight', with his 'porcelain skin of armor' and an 'ass that wouldn't quit' just for taking the trash out or even popping out to the store for groceries at the last minute. It was too grand a title to be bestowed unto him for tasks that any other teenage boy ought to be doing, which in the end, after much overuse, resulted in the grandeur of the expression fading very quickly, until one day, Kurt was almost knighted with 'hero', 'savior', 'guardian' and 'the best unicorn in the whole world' by one Brittany Pierce.

When he had approached the blonde one afternoon in the hall, swapping one textbook for another, Kurt had let her know that he had found a replacement for the injured male Cheerio, that he'd taken it upon himself to teach the boy and that the video's schedule could resume as planned. Without asking who it was, Brittany had thrown her books in the air like confetti, with nearby students cowering with their hands over their heads as books came raining down like a heavy hail storm, and had hugged him profusely, wrapping her arms around him to hoist him up into the air and had spun him around endlessly before kissing every inch of his face. It made for quite a scene, yet as Kurt had revealed whom he'd recruited, she'd frowned.

On some level, Kurt had been predicting this reaction, for Puck was known to nobody as a dancer. Sure he was the running back of athletic build, but a dancer? Brittany had needed convincing. So to this end, Kurt had given her a report of the many sessions he'd had with the jock, that when it came to Puck, it wasn't so much that he couldn't do it, so much as it was the lack of confidence that seemed to traipse behind as if he were chained by the neck to a boulder. Of course, Kurt had seen this coming, what with having taught the jock how to kiss and knowing from personal experience that it was just a matter of patience and a soft voice on his part that seemed to work well with Puck, but he'd of course excluded that part to Brittany.

However, unlike their kissing lessons, their dancing lessons were progressing at a faster rate, much more efficient and generally more at ease. Kurt would always begin with an invigorating stretch to wake up the body for movement followed by a massage that he'd give Puck right afterwards. Unfortunately, when his nerves came into play, the jock had a tendency of becoming rigid. His shoulders would tense, his neck wouldn't budge and his fists would clench very tightly to the point where blood articulation would be cut. Occasionally, he would attend rehearsals stiff and tired from football practice, with a body too worn out to move about, but knots would be undone and sighs would emanate after Kurt's hands would work their magic.

Originally, this had turned out to be as far as Kurt had felt comfortable with touching Puck. Every time he'd see him he'd be reminded of what the jock had implied in that one line at their first rehearsal. He would have liked to think it was just that Puck had allegedly not had sex within the last month or two. Or perhaps he was not so good at telling the jokes. Either way they pushed Kurt to distraction and he couldn't afford distractions in rehearsals. One slip and that was it. So he'd embraced the tension and he'd got on with it. He'd stood in as Quinn - who'd be Puck's partner - and had been lifted, held, touched and caressed, and all as their skin had been making love, the contact always searing, always scorching to the point of crying out.

Aside from the sexual tension that Kurt had converted from a nuisance into some form of body fuel, he was pleased to note that he'd made one hell of a good call with Puck. Not only by the end of the fifth session had Puck learnt every move, but Kurt had been pleased to know that the jock could hold him high in the air whilst doing them. He'd always known Puck to be strong but this boy had some serious skill if he could it whilst dancing. In fact, he'd done it with so much ease, holding him like a human dumbbell as McKinley's very own version of Phil Heath, that Kurt had feared the jock would think him to be underweight, but he'd said nothing. At least Kurt knew Puck would have no problem holding Quinn. He was sure of that.

Now the only thing gnawing at Kurt's own nerves was the fear that everything he'd taught Puck would have entered one ear and out the other by the time he'd see him next. It was the fear he'd always have between rehearsals, but now with the choreography learnt and it all being a matter of practice, it seemed to have worsened. Thankfully, he'd made to scare Puck when they'd last met, saying that he'd not only ruin the video if he didn't practice, but that he'd potentially turn off every girl who would see it, a prospect that had immediately flashed the desired fear in Puck's hazel eyes, leading him to assure Kurt that he'd have the dance down and perfect by their next meet up. Kurt just hoped the jock would remain true to his word.

Now as he sat in Glee club with legs crossed Kurt's thoughts now ceased from that of dance, to matchmaking. Originally, getting Puck and Quinn together was just to get the jock off his back, to use the blonde to tame his once vicious ways, but now that he and Puck were friends, there wasn't any use for it, except there was. There was sexual tension between him and the jock for a reason and Kurt had to find Puck a girl fast if he wished those heated hazel eyes to be averted from him - enter Quinn. Before Glee, he'd removed any spare chairs on both tiers and he had encouraged Quinn to sit beside him, leaving the end seat on the second row next to her free for a certain boy with 'guns' as impressive as rocket launchers.

Soon enough, the rest of the club came piling into the room, mindlessly chatting and not so much noticing the fewer amount of chairs that had been laid out. After all, they were exactly enough seats for everybody, yet as Puck trailed in last, Kurt's eyes looking lazily ahead but catching the jock in his peripheral vision, he came to a stop. His hazel eyes scoured the room for an empty seat, yet the only one unoccupied was the one next to Quinn and so shrugging casually, Puck took it up, making himself comfortable next to the blonde. Neither of them, however, noticed Kurt next to them almost whispering in his best Mr. Burns voice 'excellent', equipped with the accompanying tapping fingers, low eyes and evil smirk, for this truly was excellent.

Looking up, Kurt checked the clock ahead but frowned. The club was set to have started five minutes ago and yet Mr. Schuester had yet to appear. It was rather odd, considering the music teacher always upheld a professional and punctual attendance record when it came to his 'pride and joy' of a club. This, of course, wasn't an issue with anyone, except Rachel. She'd been hoping to offer a collection of scores, mainly solos for Mr. Schuester to look over, yet as she eyed the door, no scalp of gelled curly hair appeared, just the sound of chairs being shifted and repositioned as laughter and chatter soon followed, everyone animatedly launching themselves into their own private conversations as talk replaced singing.

Meanwhile, Kurt pulled out his iPhone and began listening to it, his body slouching and ignoring correct posture as he let his eyes wonder yet again around the room. Looking to his left, he noticed Artie and Brittany discussing the music video, their heads bowed over an A3 piece of paper. Behind him, Rachel had settled on talking to Mercedes about her having seen Barbara Streisand perform at Carnegie Hall over the weekend and to his right, were Quinn and Puck talking animatedly. The blonde seemed to be more interested in the boy than she had dared to admit, judging by the way her body was invitingly angled towards him and the way her legs crossed so that the one suspended nearly stroked and teased Puck's shin.

As a result, Kurt couldn't help but look on smugly. Quinn's attraction was evident, but she wasn't alone enjoying the mild flirtation. Puck had joined her in this coquetry and was softly chuckling and returning her smiles, his eyes traveling across her body from her brown eyes to her lips to her chest and as he indiscreetly checked her out, he inched himself closer so that eventually her leg met his. Gasping in embarrassment before rearranging her position as well as her skirt, Quinn blushed, an appealing shade of peach flushing delicately on her cheeks, and of course, much to Kurt's prediction, Puck had pulled out his faint worthy signature smirk, the blonde's blush sweetening before blending into a tone that complimented her fair coloring.

Everything was going to plan, even better than he'd predicted in fact. With Mr. Schuester not here, all Kurt had to do was let the sappy eyes, the streams of pleasantries and the raging hormones inside both Puck and Quinn take their toll and they'd be out on their first date in no time. He'd just hope the jock wouldn't treat the blonde as any other Cheerio. This thing between them had to last, had to be worth more than sex, until Kurt was sure that coruscation in Puck's hazel eyes gleamed no more for him, but for someone else. However, it wasn't until he heard a small commotion behind him that he opened his eyes out from his matchmaking reverie and looked round to see Mercedes going off rather angrily to sit with Tina and Mike.

By the looks of things, Rachel hadn't known when to shut up about her idol Ms. Streisand. There was only so much people could take on the woman, and at the thought of silencing the brunette with a plunger to her face, her arms outstretched as she waddled around the room, blindly bumping into things before running into the piano with the instrument opening up and gobbling her up for everyone to cheer at, ah yes, there was nothing better than daydreaming, as Kurt went and looked on over to his left to see how his two lovebirds were getting along. However, his smile fell as he was disappointingly met with the sight of Quinn heading over to Brittany, who had waved her over, leaving Puck to sit there alone watching her go.

Slumping in his chair with as much elegance as a pregnant whale, Kurt resumed to half-heartedly scroll through his music library, sighing in dismay before looking over to his left once again. However, as his eyes settled, he found Puck staring at him, yet what was disconcerting was that the boy wasn't so much as looking at him, no, more like laying his eyes on him, and his face wasn't the object of attention and focus, but his blue skin-tight jeans. Up and up Puck's eyes went, traveling up Kurt's legs, rising languidly as if he were stroking every seam, every thread and every woven strand of denim, until with a flick of his head and a blur of attention, hazel met blue, shining bright with that very same scintillation in his eyes. The very same.

Kurt made to look away, but couldn't, and before he could fight or put up any barrier of resistance he knew he should have built, he succumbed to the fanaticism that twinkled in Puck's eyes, for the jock was observing him with such intensity that it was making it impossible to pull away. Such intensity. God, it was strong, like manpower for the soul that worked both ways as he realized his own had quickly hooked Puck nearer to him by enticing the jock to shuffle off his seat and into Quinn's, the distance between them closing, now closed. Puck was now sitting next to him, close enough that Kurt could feel the heat radiate off his body, yet as he sat up and began to put away his iPhone, a large ever so masculine hand landed on his.

Kurt didn't move a muscle. All he could do was watch the jock's hand as it stilled on his for a minute, almost as if they were mating, before it began to edge towards his iPhone. Slowly. Ever so slowly. Kurt kept his eyes open as he felt Puck stroke the top of his hand, tanned skin on pale skin until like that; the tingling sensation was gone, along with his phone. He looked up from his immobile hand to Puck, who was smirking back at him, his eyes filled with something akin to tease. What was this boy playing at now? Kurt had to frown as Puck began looking through his iPhone, checking the artists, the albums, videos and photos that he had stored on there before going back to the track that had been playing before it had been so rudely stolen.

In the end, Kurt decided to look away. Not because having Puck sit next to him was that uncomfortable, but because he didn't want to see the jock's face as he scanned his iPhone's inventory. He didn't like it when anybody did this. He hardly had any male singers on there, most of it was pop and considered feminine and he hated it when people would tease him about. No doubt Puck now had a low opinion of his taste in music, sparing his feelings behind a face pained from masking his true judgment, yet as Kurt looked back, he took in on how Puck had plugged in both ear phones into his ears, and was displaying a rather concentrated look on his face as if he were trying to solve an extremely difficult mathematical equation in his head.

"What are you listening to?" Asked Kurt warily as he pried his phone from Puck's clutches to view the track. 'Be My Lover' by Inna - the song they were using for the music video - was just a few seconds in, and by the familiar bass and beats, Kurt should have easily recognized it. It explained why the jock was biting his lip in concentration, his head bobbing and his eyes focused. He was running the choreography over in his head. "Puck, please don't tell me this is how you practice, is it?"

"What? No, of course not. I'm just revising that's all," replied Puck, pulling out an earphone to look over at him. "Don't worry, Kurt. I practiced. I've gone home and practiced so many times that I could probably do the whole routine backwards, but it was hard without you there, you know, as my partner. I had to mime picking you up and I had to guess how much space to leave just in case I squashed the invisible you. I didn't even have to look in the mirror to know that I looked like an idiot."

"Yeah, I used to get that too. I was always self conscious going over Cheerio choreography alone at home, as if there was someone watching me when there wasn't," nodded Kurt sympathetically, remembering how he'd always look his bedroom door and listen to the music on his iPhone rather than on his speakers. "You just have to remember that it's all in your head, and besides, when you know you've got good, it doesn't matter if anyone ends up seeing you, because you're doing it well."

"I guess. I still would have liked you there with me."

"But you know it well, right?"

"Sure I do. I've got this in the bag."

"Great. Just try not to scrunch up your face when 'revising'. You looked kinda like you having a tiny little orgasm."

"Maybe," muttered Puck chuckling, Kurt bursting into a fit of giggles as his hand covered his mouth, the jock swiftly pulling out the other earphone and handing his phone back over to him. Packing it away in his new school bag, Kurt patted it assuringly before turning back to Puck, who had his lips pulled into a loose smirk. "Well it's true, Kurt. That's one sexy song Brittany chose there, and you wanna know how I know if a song is sexy? If having it on in the background makes sex even better."

"I guess that makes sense," nodded Kurt, turning a greater angle towards Puck as a curious expression decorated his face. Puck had relieved his dry spell to this song? Like sonic Viagra taken recreationally? That was great. Although come to think of it, if it had been Kurt, he wouldn't have chosen such a song. It was too club like for making love. Then again, Puck most likely hadn't been 'making love'. "Are you saying you've been having sex to that song? How was it? Who did you do it with?"

"Nobody. That's what I'm saying, Kurt. Usually if something is meant to be sexy, like a song, a piece of clothing or anything, I have to test it out during sex, and if it works, I keep it like an old Playboy, but if it doesn't, I get rid of it," explained Puck as Kurt continued to frown. "That song was like the first song I've found sexy without having sex to it, because I've been dancing to it instead. I've been moving by body with someone else's without being in them, and it's been great. Different."

"Oh... that's nice," muttered Kurt, his stomach dropping as he realized that figuratively speaking, he had been the one Puck had been sleeping with. Their bodies had been making love through the language of dance and all without him knowing. Right, that was it. This could not keep on going. "Okay Puck, I think it best if you practice with Quinn from now on. It would be good if you went with her since she is the one you will be dancing with and I'm pretty sure she'll be very willing to-"

"No! ... I... no that's okay Kurt, you don't have to do that," interrupted Puck loudly as Kurt winced at his volume, some of the others looking their way with frowns before shrugging and returning to their own conversations. The jock, noticing Kurt looking back at him enquiringly, lowered his head before shuffling closer to him, his voice a whisper and his head bowed, all bravado stripped to hazel eyes now piercing him with nerves. "I was actually hoping you could do the last run with me."

"You were? Puck, I was only a temporary stand in. I'm not your official dance partner. Quinn is. She's very good, very cool and she was very patient with me when I started out on the Cheerios. It helped it lot. Just give her a go, please," persuaded Kurt, yet despite his efforts, it didn't seem to convince the jock. "Okay Puck, I'm going to ask you a question, and it may sound irrelevant, but I need for you to answer truthfully. Have you kissed anyone since... since our last kissing lesson?"

"No. Why? What has that got to do with anything?"

"It just helps me understand why you'd prefer to stick with me than use Quinn."

"That's because I learned with you, Kurt. I'm more comfortable with you."

"Yes, but what will you do when it comes to the day, Puck? I won't be there with you."

"Kurt, please, you're freaking me out. I need to take this slow, alright. All I ask is that I can dance with you one last time before going onto Quinn. Even though I know I've got better, I don't want her to think I'm a klutz. Please Kurt," pleaded Puck. "And the reason I haven't kissed anyone since, you know, our little thing is because I don't feel like it, and it's not because I'm scared, it's just that I don't feel like getting my mack on with anyone. I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up."

"Part of growing up is getting out of your comfort zone, Puck. I'm not the one you'll dance all your dances with, nor will I be the one you'll kiss all your kisses with. I'll never be that one," replied Kurt, now guilty as Puck's face fell into deep dejection. "Alright fine. Come to the auditorium after school today and we'll go over it once again, but this is the last time I'm rehearsing with you Puck, okay. Oh, remember to wear sweatpants. You weren't helping yourself wearing jeans last time round."

"Thanks, Kurt. You're an angel you know that?" Smiled Puck gratefully as Kurt tried to smile back just as widely. There it was again. He'd been branded that same savior like term, yet like before, Kurt couldn't help but grimace underneath the fake grin he'd plastered on. He'd not helped himself by giving into Puck's begs, but he'd had to. The words he'd uttered last before agreeing so reluctantly as if rehearsing again with the jock would be torture, had hurt Puck. Kurt could see it in his eyes.

Every time he and the jock would rehearse, Kurt would harbor fear for what was inside the boy. For what lay on the inside controlled what lay on the outside like an internal puppeteer, the actions, the movement, everything. Kurt knew Puck was a slave to his emotions, to his feelings that Kurt had now wounded as if each word had ripped off the petals of a flower in mid bloom, Puck's feelings that had been in mid bloom, now left to die with rejection. It only confirmed that Kurt was so much more than a mere 'comfort zone' to the jock, but rather a zone padded with emotions of desire. Puck favored him as a dance partner, favored his lips to kiss. Kurt had not wished this to happen. He'd ruined Noah Puckerman for anyone else, but him.

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

_La da da dee da da da da, la da da dee da da da da_   
_La da da dee da, la da da da dee da_   
_La da da dee da da da da da_   
_One, two, three, four..._

Kurt spun around, his arms in the air; his head held high as Puck circled him with a supportive hand placed on his waist to keep him upright. The stage lights were blazing with a striking color scheme of Alizarin crimson accompanied by a few flicks of baby blue and gold. The background was restricted only to various shades of black, as if they were in a cave with the splashes of red light acting as some sort of raging fire they were dancing around with the consequent shadows - that were cast against surfaces fully surrendering to their bodies - followed them wherever they went. They had commanded the attention of the stage once again, but this was no love scene. This was a heat wave, the temperature now rising to 93C.

They were here in the auditorium because the dance studio had already been booked for this time slot, and although it had proved to be rather a nuisance at first, Kurt had eventually come around on the change. The stage had a greater surface area than the studio did, allowing them more space, and now that there were no mirrors to look at, it made for good practice. It also showcased the confidence in both him and Puck in that they knew the choreography well enough to not continuously check themselves in a wall length piece of reflective glass. Attention was not so much on the absolute precision of movement, bordering on frigidity per say, but moreover the passion, to lose oneself in the dance, to offer your body to it.

_I think I'm ready for you, you take my higher, get me to cloud nine, go up to the light_   
_Yeah you can say all you want, it doesn't matter cause we shine tonight_   
_I won't let you go..._

They had been rehearsing for a good forty-five minutes. The song had been playing on repeat with Kurt occasionally having had to run on over to it to go over a specific section, and their five hundred milliliter water bottles were now empty and ready for refills. However, through all this, Kurt was pleased to have seen that Puck had stayed true to his word. Although the jock had lacked total accuracy - which had soon been remedied - he'd very much aced his way through the choreography without trouble. He'd hardly made any mistakes and even when he had, he hadn't stormed away in a tantrum and quit. No, Puck had recovered with dignity, had flushed slightly and had resumed from where they'd left off with great professionalism.

Meanwhile, Puck - who'd been reducing the amount of mistakes as he'd progressed - couldn't help but notice how much freedom seemed to pump through his dance partner's veins, as if some kind of white liquid latitude were coursing all through their body to leave nothing behind but a smiling boy. In fact, this smiling boy had been so unrestrained to anything that it hadn't been until he'd felt the lack of actual restraint on his body, with hands no longer on his hips, waist or torso, that he'd come to notice that he was now dancing on his own, with Puck now standing staring at him with admiration in his eyes, admiration that Kurt could almost play like a child whilst dancing, yet still retain a meticulous sense of direction. Wow.

_So baby give me more, don't leave me dancing on my own_   
_Yeah you can pull me on and I can make your body glow_   
_Cause you, you and I, I will run the show_   
_In this moment you're all I want..._

Halting from his movement, a baby breath like pant coming out in short bursts from the gates of his gaping lips, Kurt looked over at Puck. The velocity of time seemed to decrease. He could now see every moist particle from every exhale the jock gave, his hands as they rested on his hips digging deeper into his sweatpants, as if Puck were stopping himself from doing something he oughtn't. The moment was rich with an impulse, that grew into a pulse, and into a beat, before the thumping bass of the song came flooding back to them. It sent them both hurrying back into their positions for the upcoming chorus, the final counts rushing through their heads as they paused before jetting out in the dance, the air melting with the heat.

Puck slid onto his back and thrusted his hips as Kurt stood over him, rotating his own in perfect synch directly above those of the jock's, before stepping off of him and pacing backwards, his hand out, teasingly beckoning Puck to follow him. Follow him Puck did. Getting up from the floor and slowly making his way forwards, Puck's eyes went dark with blackened danger and raging lust before he lunged forward to recapture Kurt. He ripped his wife beater with a deafening tear, exposing his sweat covered chest as he neared, Kurt observing as the glistening ripples of fine droplets traveled down the jock's muscular torso, as if Puck had been plucked right out of a steaming sauna, a bubbling hot tub, or an aroused girl's wet fantasy. Wow.

_You and me until the end of time cause we are written in the sky_   
_Get close to my lips, knock you up in my kiss_   
_Tell me you will be mine tonight, you will be mine tonight_   
_Be my lover, be my lover..._

Launching himself forwards as if he'd catapulted himself from feet too small to propel, Kurt met Puck's charge head on _,_ their chests meeting with a thud as they both let out gasp like grunts upon impact, as if the wind had been knocked out of them both. The palms of their hands had met in the collision with Kurt's now engulfed in Puck's much larger ones, yet the pale boy still retained power. He directed the jock's hands with his encased ones, out to the sides and back in, along the chest and down the torso, before descending down to the waist where their hands let go, as if Kurt had deposited Puck's palms to settle back home where they belonged, and all while burning hazel orbs remained locked on a sea of breathless baby blue.

Kurt felt in the moment, the music had brought them thus far, and he now felt a wave of sensuality race across his fingertips as he traced them up Puck's arms to his shoulders, for he had pure strength keeping him tight, holding him safe. However, as the jock lifted him into the air and back down to the ground to face him, he felt something brush against his thigh, something bad. He tried to ignore it as he leaned back, dipping his head towards the ground as Puck's hands remained firmly on his waist, but as soon as he was brought back up to standing, his hands weaving themselves around the jock's thick neck, his realization was regrettably proven correct. Puck's eyes were not the sole areas of his body radiating such fervid desire.

_Now let me do it to you, you've got my heart b-beating like a drum, I'll show you how it's done_   
_yeah you can take all you want, do what you like cause I'm all yours tonight_   
_Let my body ride..._

Being brought right into Puck's body just for a second as if they were about to kiss before being spun around with the jock now behind him, Puck rested his hands on Kurt's waist. The pale boy's neck had been left to loll to one side across one broad shoulder, exposing it to the mercy of Puck's damp breaths, and Kurt preferred to stay doing this, doing anything than his next move, for the choreography demanded that he grind against Puck, that his ass rub against the boy's crotch, the exact location Kurt was trying to avoid at all costs, yet it was useless. He couldn't stop. Puck would only question him if he did and the last thing Kurt wanted to do was raise attention to what was hardening down there in the jock's sweat panted prison.

Kurt began to grind, yet due to nerves, the movement of his hips were rugged. They clumsily bumped against Puck's crotch as if they were pushing the jock away with miniature like rams of his ass, only to calm down as Puck took the lead, easing them into a steady, smooth grind with his hands. However, Kurt bit his lip, his voice whimpering as these hands lost all too soon their control. They tightened dangerously, scrunching up Kurt's yoga pants as warm as summer air breathed hotly onto his neck. He was trapped. There was nothing he could do. The dance continued against his will with the grinding constant, the intrusion he was feeling becoming more and more prominent, larger and larger until he closed his eyes in humiliation.

_So baby give me more, don't leave me dancing on my own_   
_Yeah you can pull me on and I can make your body glow_   
_Cause you, you and I, I will run the show_   
_In this moment you're all I want..._

Kurt blew a great sigh of relief as the next part of the song called for the following section of the choreography, yet as he attempted to pull himself away, he couldn't move. His body wouldn't budge. Puck wasn't letting him go and as Kurt was pulled flat up against a muscular chest and made to stay there, planted uselessly, his body ran cold, ice cold. He tried to pry the jock's hands off him, as if he were a hostage held by some meaty thug, but they remained put, much like their bodies. They remained there as if they had been super glued together, as if they were connected by some sort of diamond tether, and as he was just about to voice his protest, Puck lowered his head and rested his face against his pale neck, hot and wet.

There they both stood, motionless, not moving a single muscle. All Kurt could feel now was the oddly relaxed breathing coming from the other boy, the way it rippled through the tiny baby hairs on his neck, the way it ruffled his hair towards the back of his head, but no sooner had it had begun, then Puck had begun thrusting his hips forwards, grating his imprisoned appendage against his ass. Kurt's eyes widened in fear and another set of innocent whimpers escaped his mouth. His body was dropping in heat faster than anything and as he attempted to flee again it only served for Puck to weave his hands from his sore hips to his waist and chest, fully enclosing his body, bringing him ever closer into his own. There was no escape now.

_You and me until the end of time cause we are written in the sky_   
_Get close to my lips, knock you up in my kiss_   
_Tell me you will be mine tonight_   
_Be my lover, be my lover, be my lover..._

"Please Kurt... please," whispered Puck as he clung to him like a lifeline, the desperate tone in his voice ceasing Kurt's whimpering immediately and as he looked around at the jock, their faces now merely centimeters apart, they took each other in. He didn't know what the jock was pleading for; either asking permission to come or asking for him, for Puck wanted him. Jesus he wanted Kurt badly, and he was admitting it, something Kurt had thought he'd never do. The jock was throwing himself out there, only to have Kurt reject him. No. It wasn't meant to be this way. Puck had let himself go too far to the point of no return and as Kurt saw the jock's pleading face, beseeching him to see, he just couldn't return it. He just couldn't.

Kurt had thought Puck would let him go, yet the jock's hands tightened around him in response, friction building between them and as Kurt shifted slightly against the impenetrable force of muscle, a sharp grunt emanated from behind him. Puck's hips bucked forwards rapidly as he buried his face once again in Kurt's neck, his muffled moans of release vibrating on pale skin as his body shuddered and convulsed, the ripples of movement transferring right into Kurt. In response, the brunet stood absolutely still. He absorbed each and every one of Puck's euphoric inducing contractions, reluctantly allowing the jock his pleasure of soft sex and this time not doing anything to stop it for he couldn't have stopped Puck even if he'd wanted to.

_Caught in the moment, it's just you and me, where have you been all my life?_   
_Come be my lover and take me away, touch me and turn up my heart, yeah_   
_Get close to my lips, knock you up in my kiss_   
_Tell me you will be mine tonight, you will be mine tonight..._

"What the... what the fuck have I done?" whispered Puck to himself as he released his hands from Kurt's body and stumbled backwards, the pale boy he'd rutted against staying still as if in shock, as if he'd just been raped. He turned around after several seconds to look at the jock, to see those hazel eyes shining with regret only for his sight to be stolen by the newly formed large black patch on the crotch of the jock's sweat pants, the stain made ever more evident in the illumination.

"Oh no... oh God..." murmured Kurt, bringing his hands up to his mouth as he tried to wrench his eyes away from Puck's wet patch. It seemed to be growing, as if the jock were still orgasming. Kurt could almost feel the dampness, the warm wetness. He could feel the patch on his ass. He had a joint stain of a soiled nature imprinted there and as Puck followed his line of vision and looked down, his hazel eyes widening in horror and his mouth fell open, he noticed what he had done to himself.

"Why... why didn't you stop me, Kurt? Why?" Asked Puck quietly, his voice breaking, crackling like paper. Kurt didn't know what to say. He'd learned the hard way to 'just take it' and to be nothing but quiet and willing as a blow up doll, yet now, he knew learning would be even harder this time. Puck was storming towards him, grabbing him by his shoulders and shaking him as he shouted with unshed tears staining his eyes. "Dammit it, Kurt! You could have stopped me! You could have..."

"Puck... please..." begged Kurt as he willed Puck to let him go, to stop before he'd say something he'd regret, yet the jock could only look down at ground, both their foreheads coming to touch, until he let go. Puck dashed on over to his wife beater a few meters away and pelted from the auditorium, the loud bang of the doors echoing around the hall. Kurt wondered if the jock was ever going to build the courage to speak to him again, even glace his way again. Somehow, he doubted he would.

_Be my lover, be my lover, be my lover_ _  
Be my lover, be my lover_

Kurt stood there, the music ending, the music dying away with now only the ticking of the clock for company. He knew this had been a mistake. He should have never agreed to this. He'd yet again been victim to assault, yet at this, he winced. Assault was a term loaded with negative connotations, images that certainly didn't correspond with the way Puck had held him the way he had. Those muscled arms had spoken. Kurt was alive to be touched, to be breathed on like a flame, alive to be hurt even. It was as if Kurt opened himself to be hurt, and of all the bodies these thick arms had held, none of them had what this creation had, clad in eggshell white with a thin layer of downy peach fuzz that had caught the light all so well.

Stumbling forwards, Kurt retrieved his iPhone from the audio console and traveled the stage to his bag. The color scheme of the stage lights, that had once rivaled their searing hot anatomies, not only seemed to show a boy with hair slicked against his forehead, his once matte, powdered face glistening with sweat, with his skin starkly white, like an embalmed corpse's, drained of blood, but a boy with a jock's humiliated face emblazened in his sub conscious. He felt pity for Puck, pity for the boy who was at the moment bursting his way out of the school, shoving students aside to reach his truck, his lips cursing his sexual appetite that had feasted on a body poached in a milky sauce, for he'd ruined himself for everyone, even Kurt.


	16. Sex

"With newly released evidence fully exonerating the family, one question remains, who killed JonBenét Ramsey?" Began Mrs. Hagberg, raising from her seat and making her way to the center of the class as she stared out at her comatose looking crowd of students. Today they were all learning about the grisly murder of the 1996 murder of six-year-old beauty queen JonBenét Ramsey, and to say Kurt was a put off by the topic was an overstatement. It seemed that whatever they studied in World History, it always had to be dark and dismal. In fact, the questionable syllabus wasn't so much history as it was a guide to murder mysteries, since nine times out of ten; it was always revolving around someone killing someone else.

It was ridiculous, as Kurt rested his chin on one hand whilst the other had a pen in it's fingers, tapping incessantly against the note pad below. They had learned about the Manson murders and how one couldn't be stabbed enough. They had learned about the Columbine High School Massacre and how, because of that, playing violent video games like Doom would convert you into a gun wielding homicidal maniac _,_ and finally they were learning about a case which was as cold as they got, to never allow your daughter to win 'Little Miss I Have Failures for Parents' in pedophile paradise. Why couldn't they learn history that was more positive, that was lighter where everyone was hugging everyone? Like the Hippie Movement perhaps?

At this point in time, Kurt wouldn't be so opposed to learning about the Declaration of Independence, the Ratification of the Constitution or even the Louisiana Purchase. If they were going to focus primarily on their own country instead of the world as they should have been, the least they could do was study basic American history, yet what was worse was that no one seemed to be agreeing with him. As he scanned the classroom warily, he noticed that everyone's attentions were now fully engrossed in what the old teacher was rambling on about. Their notebooks were out and they were scribbling down notes as if they were actually interested in a girl who had been bludgeoned and garrotted in her own basement. It made him sick.

Pulling his focus away from his classmates and out the window, Kurt's eyes trailed the ever slowly moving clouds as they wafted across the sky. He was so bored he could actually pinpoint its shade of blue as that of sky blue. Groundbreaking. In truth, he had always been more of an indoor person, preferring to have a roof over his head than the sky, but right now all he wanted to do was to open the window, climb out, run onto the playing fields and just lie there without a care in the world. He deemed it to be a more far pleasing prospect and as he day-dreamed of his Great History Escape worthy of its own movie adaption and Golden Globe award for Best Picture, he was pulled out of it abruptly when a piece of paper landed on his desk.

Blinking at the scrunched up piece of paper, and eying it as if it were some kind of ticking terrorist bomb, Kurt did not for a second touch it, even if he was curious as to what had been written on it. He looked around the classroom to see who had thrown the projectile and with a roll of his eyes his sight landed on a pair of sniggering jocks, their shoulders hunched and their faces festering with mischief, their mouths contorted into sneers that let forth cackle like chuckles. Huffing in agitation, Kurt made to turn around to dispose of his new 'present', not wishing to dignify their immature behavior with a response, but he stopped when the left hand jock turned to his left and nudged his shoulder against the boy sitting next to him - Puck.

This was a rare occasion where Kurt had not seen Puck out of the corner of his eye or in a reflection, because for a week, ever since their incident on the stage, the jock had been avoiding him. Even in Glee and in all the classes they shared, the forbearance was high and Kurt had had enough decency to throw a blind eye to it all, to play along, even if no longer talking to the first male friend he'd made, hurt. He missed the masculine energy Puck gave off when in his company, yet Kurt couldn't be selfish. The jock was hurting more, had issues to sort out, so Kurt had given him his space, an out of sight and out of mind sort of distance that closed as Puck was now pulled out from his notes to follow in the direction of the pointed finger.

As soon as Puck's eyes met his, Kurt whipped around and stared out front, his eyes still wide as he sat perfectly still. He could feel those Hazel orbs on him now, scanning the back of his head, staring him down as if he were wearing a ridiculous cone shaped 'Dumb' hat on his head, until they trailed down to the note on his desk. Kurt would have imagined this would have angered Puck. The jock had made it quite clear that no one mess with the pale boy less they wish a similar fate as Jase Brandon, yet as nothing came about, hearing not so much as the scraping from Puck's chair, Kurt's heart sank. The jock's evasion had been picked up from his fellow Neanderthals, giving them free reign to tease him in whichever way they liked.

Pulling himself together, Kurt relented to actually write notes about on the lesson, yet before he could flip open to a fresh piece of paper, another scrunched up paper ball landed in front of him. Now he had two. Why couldn't they just get the message that he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of reading their illegible mess of scribbles they called 'writing'? His agitation building up as he heard the chuckles of his tormenters a few rows behind, Kurt swiveled in his chair, picked up one of the paper balls and held it out in front of him so that both jocks could see, knowing very well that even though Puck had his head down, his eyes remained on Kurt, watching him as if looking upon a beauty he'd been forbidden to look upon.

Tear, tear, and tear! One by one, Kurt had opened each scrunched up ball of paper and had torn them up, ripping them apart as the sounds of their screams had rung through the room. His eyes had remained fixed on both jocks throughout, never allowing his sight to flit on down to the crude contents written below. He reveled in the way the malicious grins on both jocks' faces faded as predicted only to be replaced with a set of matching scowls, as if Kurt had just been tearing up a winning one million dollar check that now consisted of nothing but corpse like pieces of paper, fluttering to the floor in many unsalvageable pieces. God that had felt good, as Kurt shot them both a victorious smile before turning back to his work.

Kurt was expecting more paper bombs, various stationary items being thrown at his head, payback of any kind for something he'd always wished of doing to his bullies, yet it never came. As he turned his head around, he smirked as both jocks had slumped further down into their seats once more, their eyes gloomily looking back at Mrs. Hagberg, who was at this moment in time, discussing whether the parents of JonBenét Ramsey were really involved in the murder or not, despite the evidence. Kurt had won this round and it felt good to win, yet his smug smirk morphed into its kinder sibling as he took in the hidden smile on Puck's face, the jock jotting down notes with a grin as if he were proud of Kurt, that he was still rooting for him.

Turning back around well pleased, with hope now rising in the pit of his tummy that he and Puck would be able to get past all this and move on, Kurt was met with Mrs. Hadberg organizing everyone into pairs for a discussion on the case. He was paired with Lauren Zizes; the rather intimidating and formidable female school wrestler, known for being the first ever-real school female bad ass, a distinction many thought to have been associated with Santana. Kurt had seen Lauren around, had heard that she was the wrestling team's star and even though they had shared this class together for some time, they still hadn't been introduced, until now, as Lauren - who'd been sitting right in front of him - turned her seat round to sit opposite.

Kurt promptly cleared his desk to make room and was just about to introduce himself with a smile when he caught Lauren's eyes shifting, looking past his face towards the back of the class. It was established in the ruled of popularity, that the further away you sat from the teacher, the higher your rank in the school, and such a place was only occupied by the 'cool kids', run predominately by the jocks and cheerleaders. There was no question, and despite Kurt being a Cheerio, the fact that he was openly gay and a member of the Glee club no less was enough of an excuse for ostracization, to shun him away from achieving any high status at all. Not that he wanted it. He'd never be able to rock the dim-witted plastic look. No way.

"So Lauren, what do you think of all this? Do you think the killer knew JonBenét or do you..." began Kurt, trailing off as Lauren continued to look past him as if she were smitten, a look of puppy love that was slightly soured at the edges as if she wished for, she couldn't have. It was just as well. As Kurt followed her line of sight, his eyes landed on one of the jocks who had thrown the two paper balls at him, before turning back to Lauren, a 'you've got to be kidding' expression shining bright.

"Isn't he just so... my God, I could stare at him all day," muttered Lauren, again giving off the impression that Kurt was not there, that no one was there but herself and the boy she was lusting after. However, the pale boy didn't appreciate being ignored. His company was far more engaging than a jock's. That you could say even from appearances alone. So bringing out his hand, Kurt waved it in front of the girl's dazed face, shifting her attention to him and back down to the hard solid Earth.

"Lauren, do you mind not staring at Jase Brandon. The boy's dull enough to turn your brain to dry cheese," muttered Kurt. He had always believed Lauren to be a very tough cookie. She was just about capable of defending herself against anything that may cross her path like an invincible sumo wrestler, but judging by the way she was blushing, her cheeks flushing the shade of Thulian pink; he had just been revealed her real weakness - Jase Brandon, or at least Kurt thought it was him.

"Ew Jesus no, Hummel. I wasn't staring at Jase Brandon. What do you take me for?" Asked Lauren rhetorically as Kurt blinked, taken aback by her sudden defense. "Yeah he's cute in a Hollister kind of way, but apart from that he's completely fucked up. Can't you remember what he did to that freshman yesterday? Apparently the poor guy tried to stand up to him and he had to end up going to the hospital after receiving a second degree titty twister, a pink belly and a wet willy."

"Well then who? It's not his friend Trent Matthews is it?," Asked Kurt, now shuddering as he recalled Trent had once handcuffed a freshman to the school flagpole, given him a hacksaw, informed him that he had poisoned his lunch milk and that the only way to get to the antidote in time was to saw through his leg all because said fresh man had criticized his football playing skills to be as thrilling as someone taking a dump. He had been rushed to the emergency room soon after.

"No, it's not Trent Matthews, Hummel."

"Then who?"

"Why do you want to know? It's none of your business."

"Oh, like you're going to talk about anything else. Is it Joey Kane? Daniel Foster? Oh, Ethan Dawson?"

"No, it's none of those losers, what are you talking about? How can you not see that he's the only one in the room, the only one you see?" Asked Lauren, her voice quietening into a dreamy almost love sick tone that was so unlike her, as if it didn't suit her, almost alien. Was she in love? It looked as if she was. The shimmer in the iris, the mouth slightly puckered and moist. Languishing infatuation if you were to peer at her from certain angles, certainly a case of the raging hotties for a boy.

"Well, why don't you go over to this only boy in the room and switch with his partner? That way you can stare at him as much as you like and I'll have a chance of actually getting down to discussing what we're supposed to be discussing," huffed Kurt, glaring at Lauren, her smile stretching as her head tilted. Nope, she couldn't hear him and here came Mrs. Hagberg, only a few meters away, listening in on each pair's debate with her hands behind her back, composed, but her face overtly critical.

"That doesn't sound like such a bad idea. I'd be much better of a partner than that bitch he's with, so much better," replied Lauren, her annunciation now somewhat lacking as she struggled to close her sagging mouth, one so slack, as if her jaw was broken, with drool now threatening to stain Kurt's papers from right under. Fortunately, he was quick to save them from the saliva zone before turning around to see Lauren's boy. "Isn't he the hottest boy in this entire school? Don't you think so?"

"He's the one you're into? Really? Puckerman? Go figures," muttered Kurt. Of course it was Puck, now partened with Natalia Summers, a fellow Cheerio, both of them there, flirting with the jock's hand tangling itself distractedly in the girl's loose locks, his blunt guitar calloused fingers often snagging them, teasing, taking small whiffs as he went in to whisper what looked like sweet nothing's in her blushing ear, with his body moving in, locking itself into her's, getting ever closer, warmer, hotter-

"Bitch," seethed Lauren as she observed Puck's partner return his attention just as avidly. Yet as she seethed, Kurt sat there overjoyed. Only he knew what this meant. Whatever, the jock had felt for him, was gone. Puck would no longer need to avoid him, they could talk without that vile sexual tension around and they could share nothing but friendship. Lauren could flare as much as she wanted, Kurt was cheering these two on like the cheerleader he was. 2, 4, 6, 8! Copulate! Copulate!

"Well it seems Natalia must also like him judging by the way she has her hand on his thigh. Go any higher though and she'll be able to count the number of Trojans in his pocket," replied Kurt calmly, because although confetti canons were shooting in his belly like there was no tomorrow, his skin dared not reflect this unless it were to find itself littered with Lauren hand shaped bruises, rotting away at the surface. Kurt had a hide to protect which meant keeping everything on the down low.

"I know what that idiot stick figure with no soul is doing. She just planted herself next to him because she knew Mrs. Hagberg was going to pair everyone up for discussions. Sneaky slut. I mean how can Puckerman get that close to her? Kissing her must be like kissing a spawning sturgeon," seethed Lauren as her hands descended to the sides of the desk to grip at the wood, trembles of her anger now shaking it whole as Kurt saved his rolling pens from their own little earthquake.

"Lauren, you have to calm down. Natalia's just another lay for him. Just as soon as he's done with her, he'll be back on the prowl looking for someone one. Come on, you know how it goes. You might as well book in your own appointment in advance," giggled Kurt heartily as this over exaggeration in reaction to Puck flirting with a girl - which couldn't be further than a phenomenon - could only be passed off as hilarious in his eyes. Even Lauren must have realized how she was behaving.

"This isn't funny, Hummel! Its deranged skanks with bullshit Russian names like 'Natalia' who think they can get any boy they want just by batting their false eyelashes, jutting their overtly padded bras and pulling up their skirts so high they're tube top," seethed Lauren, Kurt now witnessing as every capillary in her face began to break with each giggle and blush Natalia pulled. Soon her face would be so inflamed in a scarlet flush that she'd only be of any use as a roadside trafficking sign.

"Well Lauren, you could say the same for Puckerman. He swaggers, he smirks and he flexes. It's what he does, and he seems to have no problem wearing tee shirts that often show off how much muscle he has. I mean look what he's got on now," explained Kurt, pointing at Puck's black fitted top that lay tight upon his taught, tanned body, though it could have been made easier to see if Natalia hadn't now had her hands all over it, tracing it down to the smallest muscled groove.

"She can stroke her acrylic nails all over his body all she wants, she'll never be enough for him. Look at her, look how weak looking she is. He'll snap her in two before he has the chance to come," smirked Lauren, pulling her eyes away and resuming her work as Kurt winced at her language. Sure Puck was strong, but that didn't mean he was rough. Alright, when he forgot himself in the moment, he could be, but for the majority of the time Kurt had taught him, the jock had been very gentle.

Now, as Kurt's eyes shifted from Puck over to Natalia, he would have argued against Lauren's accusation that the girl wasn't at all 'weak looking'. Natalia was actually one of the best cheerleaders in the squad and one of the few there that had not behaved rather glacially towards him when he'd first enrolled. Her status was relatively high, although she was often overshadowed by the likes of others like Santana or Quinn, and her good work on the Cheerios was considered by some - including Kurt himself - to be widely discredited. She was a sweet girl, with fair skin, brown hair, blue eyes, and rather slender in form, yet at this, Kurt blinked. The similarities were too great, too close for comfort. Puck wasn't letting him go.

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

The day passed by as usual, rather more slowly actually, as if it were recovering from a hangover in the heat of the sun and with each class Kurt had, he would always seat himself by the window, contemplating an issue he'd thought had been solved. Puck was still avoiding him. As if Kurt were Medusa, and just one look would turn the jock to stone, Puck was avoiding him still and he was not afraid to show it. His frequent attempts to bypass him had since lost all subtly as well as any tact or finesse, to the point where the pale boy had suspected for a moment that the jock had been purposefully trying to broadcast to everyone that he had absolutely nothing to do with Kurt and that he wished to be as far away from the boy as possible.

This obvious rejection and total disregard to Kurt's feelings were what pinched the pale boy's heart every time it happened. Who was Puck to treat him as if he were some incubus of viral plague? You couldn't treat your friends like that, even if you had a history of rutting against them, yet when thoughts of what had happened at their last dance rehearsal arose once again, Kurt relented to calm down. He guessed he'd never fully understand what the jock was going through, this sexual identity crisis he was dealing with. Kurt had always been sure of his own, which meant if Puck had to avoid him in the way he was going about it, no matter how indiscreet it was, then that's what he had to do, Kurt would just have to accept that.

Now, as school came to a close, Kurt left his final period and made his way towards his locker where he deposited his schoolbooks and packed up what he would need for tonight's homework session. He was not going to leave it to the last minute like he had a tendency of doing, no, he would complete this World History research tonight, the evening it had been set. No more procrastinating. It was a piece of advice that Rachel had offered him after she had sworn that if he were to do it her way, the sooner he'd be able to go back to whatever he wanted to do, instead of spending the evening before his deadline hunched over a piece of paper when he should be a getting his at least nine solid hours of beauty sleep per night.

However, as Kurt shut his locker and made his way down the hall, his evening's strict schedule imprinting itself in his mind, his strides faltered when he noticed Lauren Zizes at the far end of the corridor, leaning against the main doors of the school and peering at him with narrowed eyes. She remained there as if she was reenacting a stereotypical scene from a Western movie, the skilled cowgirl just arrived in this small town that went by the name of Lima, until she peeled herself from her post and marched her way over to him, her thundering footsteps now almost rattling the lockers in their frames, some of the locks shuddering several numbers over on their dials as she finally came to stop before him, hands on her hips, eyes piercing.

"Hummel, I need to talk to you about something," began Lauren with an almost militant like touch to her voice, one of authority, bearing down on him as if he were a child being reprimanded with detention. Yet this child was not in the mood for such confrontation. These walls spoke too heavily of the way he'd been avoided today by a certain mohawked boy. He wished no longer to be within them as Lauren posed her question. "You know that research assignment we were given-"

"Look Lauren, if this is about the notes you missed, then I will give you mine once I'm done with them," replied Kurt tiredly, hoisting his bag more securely on his shoulder as he eyed Lauren warily. Throughout the entire duration of World History earlier this afternoon, the girl hadn't written a single thing down. She'd pretended to be at work whenever Mrs. Hagberg had been around, but really all she'd done was stare at Puck and witness how he'd almost lured Natalia right onto his lap.

"No I'm not here for the notes, Hummel. Although come to think of it, I will need to borrow them," replied Lauren with a sigh as Kurt nodded as if he'd already predicted she'd ask for them, not that he could blame her. He had been complimented in the past for having neat calligraphy. "I'm here because I want to know if you want to do the research assignment with me. You're like the only person I now talk to in that dumb ass class and like the only one who'd be prepared to help me right?"

"What makes you say that? You were useless to me as a discussion partner today."

"Hello?! How can anyone discuss anything when Puckerman's in the room?"

"Well I was trying to do it, but you see I got landed with his biggest fan."

"And you landed in his arms that one time when he caught you. How can you not have the hots for him after that?"

"Are we really having his conversation? Just because Puck caught me, doesn't mean I'm into him and even if I was, I'd do a far better job of concealing it than you did," retorted Kurt, recalling how his desk at the end of World History had had a slanted surface after Lauren had bent it's legs in anger. "How about I'll help you with this assignment Lauren, if you just stop talking about this. We can meet up tomorrow in lunch break and then we can compare notes. How does that sound?"

"Great, thanks Hummel," replied Lauren as if it wasn't a big deal, Kurt thankful that he was now free to go. He made to round her in a hurried fashion, his pace brisk and quick, yet as he neared the main doors, he sensed someone behind him, that someone was following him closely, their strides too wide as if their feet were going to catch themselves on his retreating heels. It was rather unnerving and as he huffed and turned around, there was Lauren, eying him with a 'what?' expression.

"What is it, Lauren?"

"World History today was so lame."

"I guess."

"I mean what we have to learn is so stupid."

"You still want to talk about Puckerman, don't you," he asked her rhetorically, watching as she shrugged, again as if it wasn't a big deal. Well it was to Kurt. Puck was a topic of conversation best left alone for the time being and he just needed to get home, fix himself some hot cocoa and scream into a pillow, a tempting thought, rolling his eyes as he traveled the parking lot to his car, this time, Lauren's reflection now showing up in the shiny black coat. There was no getting away from this girl.

"Look Kurt, you don't know me very well and I don't know you very well and I'm pretty sure both of us together don't know Puckerman very well," began Lauren, Kurt opening his car and depositing his bag in the passenger seat, all the while trying not to allow his thoughts to transcend his face where they would no doubt take hold of his muscles there and contort them into a myriad of expressions. Guilt, fear, secrecy, all that would have Lauren suspecting that he had something to hide.

"Please don't tell me that your take on our history assignment is to get know to Puck better, Lauren. I really don't want to have to experience a repeat of today," moaned Kurt. He already knew Puck. They were so called 'friends' who'd gone beyond the realms of such a classification with they'd also got acquainted with each other's mouths. Yet he wouldn't tell Lauren this. He would be sure there would be pieces of him lying all over the parking lot right about now, like the remains from a grinder.

"No Hummel, that's my own private assignment for myself," explained Lauren. "I just like Puckerman. Mainly because he was one of my masturbation guys in my fantasies and he never failed to get me off. Did you know I once went with it for two and a half hours when I found out he was mixed race? Ah, that was one good 'Puck Fuck' session, but then I found out he wasn't. It should have killed my hard on and general hotness for him, but it hasn't, and if it hasn't, then he's worth it right?"

"I don't know. I mean if you're still into him after you claim the aspect of him you found attractive was false then by all means, talk to him, get to know him, whatever. It's really got nothing to do with me," shrugged Kurt, desperate to get out of this inappropriately revealing conversation. All he could think about now was Lauren pleasing herself to the touch of her hand as she screamed out Puck's name in an operatic style voice, singing out her orgasm until her bedroom windows smashed. Ew.

"Oh Kurt, I wouldn't want to get to know him. There's nothing to get to know. Puck is for fucking. That's it," laughed Lauren, Kurt turning to his car and unlocking it, depositing his bag on the passenger seat and hopping in whilst all the while trying to simmer down the anger that had bubbled up at those ignorant words. Puck was a person, not an object and if Lauren even bothered to get to know the jock, Noah, the real him for who he was, she would find him to be whole lot better than her.

"Lauren, you've got to learn to form an opinion, and preferably one that isn't as bigoted as you are," snapped Kurt, closing the driver's door before lowering the window. It was evident the girl wasn't finished with him yet. Even if he'd try to leave, she'd most likely grab hold of his bumper and wrench him back. "I don't know why you're telling all me this. You don't know me well enough like you said to start telling me whom you'd like to do it with. I don't know what you want from me."

"I have no idea either, but by the looks of you Hummel you look trustworthy enough to talk about this stuff with and if I'm wrong and you do blab then, well, I'll force feed you maggot infested lard," threatened Lauren darkly as she backed away from the open window. Kurt fully believed this girl. It was bad enough having the jocks come after you with pee balloons and paintball guns, but to add a wrestler onto your already crumbling back? Life really hadn't heard of 'over kill' had it?

"Oh don't you worry Lauren, I won't be speaking about Puck to anybody for quite some time," replied Kurt, catching Lauren break from her stance that had had her with her arms crossed over her chest with a 'Hummel + Blab = Pwned' expression on her face, to a frown that almost demanded to know what he had meant by that statement. In response, Kurt started his engine and let the car do the talking. Lauren wasn't getting anything out from him. It was best if she knew nothing.

"One more thing before you go, Hummel, seeing as you don't like it when I talk of doing dirty things to Puckerman once I get my hands on that body of his..." began Lauren, smirking as Kurt made to stain her skin with a glare that would hopefully clamp her mouth shut. No doubt she had a whole library of 'Puck Fuck' fantasies just begging to spill from her mouth, all explicit enough to challenge tourettes syndrome. "But I think I'm going to stay away from you if I want to see or talk to him."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't take it personally Hummel, but for some reason he always leaves when you're near. I can't have you wrecking my chances."

"Are you saying I'm acting as some sort of repellent to your crush?"

"Repellent is too strong a word... but a word to that affect, yeah."

Blinking back at Lauren as she waved him rather cheekily goodbye, Kurt brought his sight to the front, his mouth agape as if she'd just insulted his personal hygiene. Although she may claimed not to use 'repellent' to describe him - a foul, sickening and repulsive person with a nauseating stench to match - he knew that was the exact word she'd had in mind. She'd picked up on how Puck had been avoiding him and had thrown it in his face, as if each time the jock had dodged behind a door or turned around and walked in the opposite direction upon seeing him weren't harsh enough blows already, but to insinuate him to be 'repellent'. 'Repellent'! That was the last straw. Kurt was not going to put up with being treated like this anymore.

He slammed on the gas and sped out of the parking lot, cutting Lauren off as she had neared the gates and joining the main road with hands pulling so hard on the steering wheel it looked as if it was about to be wrenched free from the console. Kurt was not heading home at once. He had an appointment to get to, a consultation to see a certain Mr. Puckerman whose ass needed kicking right away. Kurt had put up enough of this boy's crap for it to go on any longer. It was getting ridiculous. He needed to assert some control, some dominance. He needed some kind of heated speech that would leave Puck gaping in his wake, followed perhaps by a cracking slap, a drink to the face. Those always seemed to put across the message, no problem.

Now, however, as Kurt came before a set of lights, he suddenly realized he didn't know where Puck actually lived. He knew what part of town the jock resided in when Puck had briefly mentioned it in passing some time ago, but the street name, the house number, he had no idea. Then he remembered he'd written it out on his iPhone. Towards the start of their kissing lessons, both of them had exchanged contacts just in case any change of plans were to ever arise. Puck had not been enthusiastic about holding the lessons at his place, much preferring them at Kurt's, claiming that his mother and sister returned from work and school respectively much earlier than Burt did, so still to this day, the pale boy had yet to see it.

Punching in Puck's address into the GPS, it didn't take long for Kurt to pull onto the jock's street, to count down the houses as they flashed by before reaching his destination, his engine coming to a halt before Puck's home with a somewhat forced purr. Kurt unlocked his seat belt, arranged his hair in the windshield mirror before hopping out onto a calm, quiescent street that was rather less affluent than his own, though no less charming. The architecture was more country than it was it was suburban, with the Puckerman residence in front of him following the trend. It was fashioned in a rustic simplicity of the cabin house style, a style that was often built for getaway houses with porches, decks and space in which to enjoy the outdoors.

To Kurt, it resembled a craftsman's country cottage, a rather large one with a unique character set apart from its neighbors, friendly and delightful with natural materials giving off an organic feel, and a healthy, well maintained garden that spoke of care and attention from the same smiling family Kurt had seen clustered around their son in Sheet-N-Things. This was their house and Puck lived here. This was the cosy home that housed McKinley's self-proclaimed greatest bad ass and as Kurt closed the picket fence quietly behind him, making his way up the stone pathway to the front door, he looked to his left to see the driveway indeed occupied with the jock's blue Chevrolet pickup truck parked somewhat haphazardly in the space.

Without thinking, Kurt made his way towards it and peered in with both hands against the window. From what he could make out, a beer can, a tattered and stained old tee shirt with 'Nirvana' printed on the front, a couple of rock CDs and a man's Jewish necklace lay strewn across both seats. It was cluttered, unorganized and dirty and as Kurt pulled away from the glass, his nose scrunched. He didn't want to know what Puck had got up to in there; gorging himself on feasts of pizza, guzzling on gallons of beer and screwing girls in truck shaking romps where no doubt semen stains littered the upholstery from bare-backing. It was too much information Kurt had conjured up for himself that he deemed to care to think about.

Now nearing the front door, Kurt hesitated. There was a bell to the side, but there was also a knocker, yet after a few minutes of contemplation, knowing he could express his temper through that of the latter, he used the knocker and rapped on the wood. Nothing. After around a minute following the first knock, silence ruled the air, so he tried again, harder this time. Still nothing. For a moment, he thought this to be a sign to leave, to turn around and go home, but after being referred to as 'repellent' for Puck's evasive behavior he loudly rapped again for the third time. Yet again, nothing. Sighing to himself, Kurt went to lean on the door, but just as soon he had put all his weight on it, it flew open, his body falling to the ground.

The boy moaned at his poor landing before looking around. He was the only one here. It appeared no one had opened the door, for whoever had used it last hadn't shut it properly, so as he got up onto his feet and dusted himself off, he made sure to close the door firmly this time with a click. Turning around, Kurt's eyes roamed the hallway, taking in how the rooms flowed into another. The living room, the kitchen, the dining room, all connected, yet all empty. No one seemed to be home. Puck's truck was in the driveway, but Kurt caught no sight of a Mohawk anywhere. Neither did he catch the smell of the jock's Axe deodorant. He was alone in Noah Puckerman's house, the once charming building now swamped with a sense of foreboding.

By now, Kurt was seriously contemplating going home. Despite the house itself not exhibiting anything eerie like mounted animal heads or creepy dolls in the built glass cabinets, he was becoming ever more unsettled. He didn't feel comfortable trespassing on someone's property and breaking into their home, yet as he was about to make for the door, he caught sight of pictures lining the staircase wall. Nearing them, he began to examine each one. They all resembled family photographs with some ranging from a young man and woman, who Kurt assumed were Puck's parents, Puck as a toddler, standing next to a crib with his baby sister inside, to another picture of an elderly woman who Kurt now assumed was Puck's grandmother.

As predicted, the higher Kurt ascended the stairs, taking this fine photographic timeline, the more modern the images became, closer to the reality of today. Puck, who had once worn a whole head of black hair, neatly trimmed and gelled into a rather boyish look, now sported his well-known Mohawk, whilst his sister had since jumped out of the crib to become the cute elementary school girl she was to this day. However, unlike them, their mother's aging had not done so well. Fine dark cracks had appeared at the corner of her eyes, framing her mouth and those eyes once so green and beautiful were now only a fine network of burst capillaries, the eyeballs discolored as with jaundice not even a twelve-hour sleep might heal.

Kurt wanted to learn more. Why was Puck's father no longer alongside his wife? What was the cause of Puck's drastic change in appearance? Was this family genuinely happy? The questions piled up the longer Kurt browsed, until he was cut short when a set of noises emanated from one of the rooms on the first floor. Kurt froze. The sound was hard to locate at first, yet as he strained to hear, his gaze fixed itself on a white door on the other side of the landing. Here came the judgement call. Although he'd been sidetracked by the photos, he could either discover the source of these noises, or he could call quits and leave, but he couldn't leave. He was here now. He'd come too far to just walk out the door, so he didn't.

Shuffling awkwardly on the stairs, Kurt ascended the remaining steps before arriving on the landing, wincing when its floorboards creaked under his weight. His footsteps therefore lightened as he kept to the wall, as if on a perilous cliff, one wrong step and the crumbling floor would give way from right under him, yet as he neared the final door on the right, he stopped. Those noises. They couldn't be what he thought they were, even with the door muffling them into sounds that had Kurt thinking otherwise, that had his pure virgin white cheeks bathing in scarlet waters. It made it harder to knock on the door, to await a response, a strangled 'enter!', anything. Nothing. He knocked again, a little louder this time. Still nothing.

Frustrated that he wasn't going to get anywhere by knocking on any doors in this house, Kurt impatiently opened the white entrance before him, swinging it aside on hinges rotating too quickly to screech in protest. Yet no sooner had he taken his first step into the room then he pulled in a high-pitched intake of breath as he gasped at the sight before him. There, by the window on the squeaking double bed was Puck, his body hunched over Natalia Summers in the missionary position. She'd fitted herself underneath him, her slightly sore vagina, her empty womb the jock was filling, his penis so hard and eager with his hands propped up either side of her, taking his weight as she held onto him as if she were about to fall, fall off the edge.

Kurt could see how Puck's hands were twisting the sheets out from underneath the mattress like a fisted vortex as he ground into the Cheerio beneath him, whimpering and moaning almost out of control, almost as if he were hurting himself, hurting Natalia, his thrusts ramming into her thighs and leaving bruises. She let out strangled whispers of "yes, yes, like that, like that, yes," though rivulets of sweat ran down her face and her breasts, Puck was biting her breasts, biting the nipples. "You dirty girl," he was saying, moaning "dirty cunt, I love your dirty cunt," before missing her face, burying his own in her neck and staying there as he fucked her, as if he no longer wanted to see her, see who he was fucking, fucking and fucking.

Kurt didn't think he could stomach any more of this. His belly was upset, it was churning, suddenly increasing in weight as he felt more strain land on his now weak legs. He could no longer feel them, feel them supporting him. He needed to get out. He needed to pull his eyes away from the sight of how Natalia's breasts now seem to flatten painfully underneath Puck's chest as the jock crushed their bodies together, his weight landing on her, the pressure rising with the muscles under his toffee toned skin hard at work, present in his strong arms, back and thighs, flexing and contracting as he fucked Natalia at a greater speed, so much faster as beads of sweat traveled down his back like liquid bullets, freshly shot from the barrel.

Yet Puck was fucking Natalia too fast. Kurt could see it. It was crumbling. The girl's vagina was no longer a healthy shade of baby lip pink, but now excruciatingly red, as if it were inflamed, a searing burning sensation ready to bleed on the jock's now chafing shaft, yet Puck continued, head deep down in Natalia's neck, eyes closed, his body there, mind elsewhere. Kurt could no longer watch. The cries of pleasure, the wincing of pain, jets of both running through their naked bodies as if their veins now conducted only these two senses. Kurt had to leave, so he did, yet as he tore his eyes away and went to close the door behind him, its hinges took their revenge and screeched, causing the movement on the bed to slow, to stop, to freeze. Shit!

"What the fuck? Who is that!?" Exclaimed Puck angrily as Kurt's body shriveled into itself, glad it had its back facing the jock, with its other half hidden by the door. Yet it couldn't stay that way for long. It had to turn around to show Kurt's face and as it did, Puck's livid expression melted away at once. Natalia, also recognizing his face, clasped her hand over her gaping mouth and turned her face away as if in shame that she'd been caught in the act of becoming another notch on Puck's bedpost.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," burst Kurt, as he eyed the couple sadly. The contrast was striking. Just a moment ago, these two had been writhing in a bed, uncontrollable, losing control and now, now Puck could do nothing but stare at Kurt, right into those blue eyes that appeared to have been corrupted, rendering them more innocent than ever. He struggled to come to terms with who he was seeing in the doorway and as Kurt closed his parted mouth, confused words stumbled out of his own.

"My God, Kurt... what are you... what are you doing here?"

"I... um, I just came to find you, to talk to you..."

"Oh, I can talk. Hold o-"

"No Puck, it's alright. I... I see this was a bad time. You're busy. Excuse me."

"No Kurt, please!" Shouted Puck imploringly as Kurt all but ran from the room, slamming the door behind him that had the jock jumping into action. He pulled himself off of Natalia in such a rush that she rolled off the bed and landed on the floor with a thud, the white sheets landing on top of her as he picked up his jeans from the floor and pulled them on, soon pelting from his room to see Kurt on the other side of the landing, halting on the top the stairs as he looked at him. "Kurt, don't go!"

"I have to, Puck. I... I just have to leave. Please don't follow me," pleaded Kurt, willing Puck to return to Natalia for the jock was now on other side of the landing, wearing only a pair of jeans. His cock that had been erect, hard, almost leaking, set to burst, was now outlined by the loose denim as softened, fully flaccid, limp, as if it had been shot. Kurt had walked in on Puck having sex, cock blocked, again! Now he feared. Now his skin paled to that of the moon's. The jock was going to kill him.

"Kurt! Kurt, come back! Don't run from me!" Barked Puck urgently as Kurt flew down the stairs in a hurry, making sure not to knock over any of the framed photographs as he went passed, but keeping his hand on the shuddering banisters as he felt as though he was going to trip over his own legs. They were still so weak, but he was working them so hard, running so fast in the wake of a thundering roar behind him for the jock was chasing after him at full speed, catching up to him, catching!

"Puck, please! Stop chasing me!" Begged Kurt, throwing it out in the air like a desperate plea, wishing it would cease the storm behind him, yet it didn't. The pale boy still sensed Puck behind him, the jock's body tired, exhausted even from earlier yet the will power strong and vigorous as ever. It was enough of a stoking fire within the belly of the running back to chase Kurt down, a boy who seemed never to have a chance to escape such an exuberant sportsman with such high athleticism.

Finally, Kurt reached the door, his fingers fiddling with the handle and pulling it wide open as fast as he could as the knocker now loudly rapped against the wood on its own accord. The afternoon breeze greeted him at once and the fresh air cleared out his system from the stuffiness of Puck's bedroom, offering him exactly what he needed. He felt like he could breathe again, his power wave of nausea was receding, yet just as he was about to proceed out to his car, he was hoisted back into the house by two muscled arms wrapping around his waist. The door slammed shut before him with yet another deafening bang and he was let go to see Puck now standing in front of him, the six foot panting jock covered in a light film of sweat.

"Kurt, please, let me talk to you. I'm here, I'm-"

"Puck, I-"

"No Kurt please, let me get this out... I'm..."

"Yes?"

"You have to understand that what you saw upstairs just now doesn't mean anything. Natalia means nothing to me," insisted Puck, shoving his hands into his pockets and kicking the floor, these kicks just an excuse to lay some ground and step a little closer until Kurt could now smell the jock's body, Axe spray mixed in with Natalia's cheap perfume, the smell of linen, bed sheets and the work of sex riling it all up, making him sick. "She was just flirting with me today and I... went for it."

"As you do, Puck. Look, there's no need to explain yourself, you're not the one in the wrong," replied Kurt, taking a step back and relieving the distance between them, for he felt faint again. His skin was hot, as if like porcelain dipped in boiling water, cracking. "I wondered into your house without permission and, you know, interrupted you. Now I know never to enter a teenage boy's bedroom without being expressively allowed to do so. Come to think of it, I really should have known better."

"Kurt, are you alright?" Asked Puck in concern, taking in how Kurt's eyes seemed to lighten as if they were about to roll back into his head. The boy didn't look stable. He was still affected by what he'd seen, dare he think it, traumatized. Puck felt a surge of guilt overcome him and without thinking, he wrapped a supportive arm around Kurt's waist, keeping the almost flopping body up close to his own as he gulped, bringing his face closer. "What did you... um; want to talk to me about?"

"You know this is the closest you been to me all day," whispered Kurt, looking straight into Puck's eyes before lowering them in discomfort. The sweat on Puck's skin was staining his clothes, dampening them, he could feel it on his own flesh. He made to push himself away from the jock, but he had no grip. His hands only slipped on Puck's biceps, on his shoulders, sweat now on the palm of his hands as if he were part of what had happened just now, in that big bed. "I have to leave. Let me go-"

"I'm sorry... Kurt. Fuck," muttered Puck, bowing his head down in shame. By this time, Kurt stayed quiet. He didn't know where to put his hands. They hung awkwardly in the air, as if they didn't want to touch Puck, that he was now the repellent one. Maybe Puck had been the repellent one all this time - the sweat, the semen, gushing. "I've just been freaking out after what happened... you know, and I guess I haven't been handling it all that well. Christ, I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Look, Puck I-" began Kurt, now interrupted by the sound of footsteps above, reminding them both that they only ones in the house. He had to leave. Although he hadn't come to say what he'd planned, Puck now knew. He snapped up the cue that had offered itself before whispering, "It's fine, I understand. I'll see you tomorrow", before freeing himself from Puck's ever-reluctant arm and opening the door once more, making sure this time to find himself on the right side of the threshold.

Overhearing the sound of a car door opening and closing followed by the start of an engine revving up, Puck's shoulder's drooped miserably as Kurt accelerated away down the street. He had just been caught ploughing a girl into his mattress by the last person he had wished would see - Kurt - the boy a vision of creamy hues and radiant blue eyes that were now specked around the edges with flashes of tangled limbs and vigorous mounting; Puck in a hurry, like a jockey on a filly, his penis thrusting blindly into a cut between legs, the emptiness between the legs that hurt, pumping away, disconnected kisses with no affection, just thrusting himself with a dogged and inexplicable air of a boy kicking into hard packed sand.

Without warning to the boiling rage erupting within him, his face contorting into a tone of rueful fury, Puck roared in anger. He grabbed hold of a baseball bat from under the coat rack with hands tightened into fists as he began smashing everything in sight, eyes ablaze as he barked out " _ **FUCK!**_ " He wildly swung the bat with as much force as he could, destroying the living room end table lamp, a framed family photograph, the television, the study bookcase and a set of shelves in the dining room before returning to the living room where he threw his wooden weapon into the mirror above the fireplace mantelpiece, shards of glass raining down onto the ground below like reflective spear heads plucked from the spear, now daggers.

Now as Puck slumped on the couch and buried his head in his hands, all he could do was repeat the same profane word over and over again. Even though Kurt had seen him and Natalia for only a minute or two, Puck felt as though the pale boy had seen it all, now feeling the aftermath. How his loose lay now sat in the bathroom in a mirror blazing with light that hurt her eyes, a crust of puke lining her lips from a poor gag reflex, scalding flaming pee that had her whimpering so loudly Puck could hear her from amidst the remains of his rampant temper, as he too whimpered at how hard he was tugging on his Mohawk, strands of black hair appearing on his fingers like needles, his eyes pricked, mouth now whispering lowly. "Oh Kurt...  _baby_."


	17. Date

Kurt descended his stairs as he held in both hands a tray adorned with rich Jersey milk and white chocolate raspberry encrusted muffins. For many of his fellow Cheerios, he might as well have been carrying a jug full of fat alongside needles with their cylindrical glass bodies filled with calories ready to inject, for being a cheerleader on Sylvester's squad was no picnic, or one where carbs were in the basket at least. Many of them instead drank The Sue Sylvester's Master Cleanse - water, maple syrup for glucose, lemon for acid, cayenne pepper to irritate the bowels, and a dash of ipecac, a vomiting agent. Solid meals were discouraged and bulimia encouraged. Yet Kurt didn't need the drink. The idea of it made him sick already.

He'd invited Quinn along home after school to further discuss Brittany's music video, how it was all going to pan out and if she knew of any new developments. However, one thing the blonde wasn't anticipating was a long persuasive speech regarding the possibility of her dating Noah Puckerman, and all from a certain Kurt Hummel's mouth, not that said boy was going to reveal his true intentions. His less than fortunate encounter at the Puckerman residence, walking in on Puck and Natalia together, had left him rather shaken, but he'd sped from the house with hope that the jock had his hazel gaze once more on the female form, a comeback development Kurt was now exploiting with now another female form, blonde and fair.

There were signs that opposed him, rather like cracks in a freshly plastered wall that an estate agent might cover up when showing around potential buyers, and this is what he did, what he tried. He chose to ignore them as best as he could - Puck running after him, catching him and holding his faint flopping body in a costume of sweat as if it had been steamed to make him look like that for a scene on a movie set. The guilt, the way the jock's face had twisted into an expression of shame, as if he had been caught cheating on Kurt, fornicating with a cheap sleaze of a girl on sheets now stained yellow, the shade of sallow skin, no longer smooth to the touch, but rough, like the action had been. Cheating had been rough, harsh, scabrous.

Placing the tray on his bed with Quinn bringing herself off the couch and joining him, Kurt gently sat down so as to not spill the milk, though he was distracted with dreamy thoughts of Puck and Quinn kissing under a wedding arch. Candy colored confetti would flutter in the air, tearing guests would smile and applaud and the words 'Just Married' would be attached to the back plate on the white vintage Rolls Royce that would drive them both away to their peace filled, prosperous filled and happiness filled honeymoon, all of course including sex with room service. It was such a pleasant event to imagine and to think that he would be responsible for the greatest love affair or their lives, with him to be the one to be thanked. The joy!

"Kurt? Kurt are you alright?" Asked Quinn with light amusement, peering at him with a cheeky smile, eying how his eyes seemed to almost float in his sockets like a buoy on the sea, the blue in his eyes almost swimming, until they blinked, returning to reality. These were followed by another set of blinks, fluttering in nature as if teasing, before he grabbed the jug and poured a generous amount of milk into one of the glasses, handing it over to the blonde and smiling amicably.

"Yeah, I'm alright Q. Just thinking about a Big Day in my head. That's all," replied Kurt with a subtle smile, a subtle smile for a subtle reference, his voice coated in breath, soft with hardly any volume as he watched the cheerleader sip at her milk, select a muffin from the tray and unravel the wrapper encircling it. For all Quinn knew, he was referring to the music video's first day of filming. If only she knew. "Anyway, the music video, do you where we're shooting it? Brittany hasn't told me anything."

"Oh, it's going to be on the sport's field, well for the dance sequences anyway," informed Quinn as Kurt nodded. He supposed such a setting would make sense as they were wearing rather racy cheerleader outfits, exposing skin just for the golden sun to kiss and lay its eyes over, bringing out the sizzling melanin. "I just hope that the weather's going to be good. Unlike every other pop star in a music video, I don't want to dance in the rain and have my top stick to my breasts."

"Well, it's not as if you should feel self conscious if that were to happen, Q. You have good looking boobs," admitted Kurt non nonchalantly, bringing his own glass of milk to his pouting lips as he looked up at Quinn through eyes hazed with a mock heat as he glanced down at her breasts. They were naturally pendulous even through her Cheerio top, filling out her bra that cupped them like male hands, getting larger by quick degrees, bouncier and unlike Santana's, natural, the work of her God.

"Thank you, Kurt," giggled Quinn, looking down at her breasts amidst her hair that had been let loose from its ponytail choke like hold and allowed to pool around her slim shoulders, hair that had been richly conditioned to pick up the smallest light and shimmer like a lemon hued dress adorned with thousands of rhinestones. "Even so my hair goes frizzy when it's exposed to the rain and I just can't pull off that look. I'd look like a blonde version of Diana Ross or a singer out of The Supremes."

"Yeah, that wouldn't be flattering," replied Kurt as he scrunched up his nose as if in distaste of rain and all it's crimes upon the scalps of so many people. His own hair tended to go wavy when exposed to rain and very soon he'd resemble a 1920s flapper girl with damp hair, as if it were drenched in gel, greasy like they wore them at the period. He supposed this was when having buzz cuts came in handy, a shaved head, save for a Mohawk perhaps, a trimmed strip of hair, short and sexy.

"I'm also kind of worried being... um... being partnered with Puck," whispered Quinn as Kurt stopped pouring himself milk to help his recent bite of muffin go down. He set the jug aside and urged the blonde on with his eyes, offering her his full attention. "Well ever since you said you knew who I was, you know, checking out, I feel awkward around him, because if you've caught on, maybe he has. That's the reason why we haven't practiced the dance together. I just can't ask him."

"Then wait until he asks you. He's more nervous about dancing in this video than you are, Quinn. He's new to it all and he just doesn't want to look like a 'klutz' in front of you," explained Kurt, recalling what Puck had said before their final dance rehearsal, how it had all been a hidden excuse for them to be alone again. "Besides, he's probably already caught on that you like him. Say it how you will Q, you were flirting with him in that Glee rehearsal, and you know, he was doing right back."

"Yeah, but I don't know whether it was genuine or not, Kurt. He flirts with so many girls it's like an act. You don't know if he's pulling off the same moves really well or if he actually means it," replied Quinn, something that Kurt had to relent was rather difficult to determine. The only thing he could think of that could give any act of Puck's away, would be his eyes, and only because those hazel gates had opened up for him many a time to see a soul clouded with countless conflicting emotions.

"Well, from where I was sitting, I saw something there."

"You did?"

"Sure, just as I saw where your eyes were wondering, not to mention any places... his dick."

"Kurt!"

"What? He had the case of the wondering eyes as well. What with those breasts of yours and Puck being... well Puck, I'm surprised he didn't stick his head in between them," giggled Kurt, Quinn gasping before lightly swatting his arm as she ducked her face and blushed, the tips of her ears flushing under the fountain of blonde hair. There she fiddled with her Cheerio's skirt, the material weaving in and out of her fidgeting fingers in an embarrassed manner as Kurt smirked on.

"You know, I haven't just been checking him out, Kurt. I'm not that shallow. I've noticed other things too," replied Quinn in defense, her lips pouted like a child wishing for something. "He's changed. He's not bullying anyone anymore, he joined Glee club, he's helping Brittany out for her video. I even heard he caught you in World History class where he knocked out Jase Brandon right after. You know they're all things he never would have done a year ago, but here he is now, doing them."

"He is changing for the better, isn't he," smiled Kurt, filling up Quinn's glass as she stared at comforter below her in thought. Unknown to her, it was all down to her host, a pale boy glorifying in his success at having changed a boy around. Not that he hadn't had to suffer a couple blows to get there, but he'd converted Puck into a model student. Girls were now going to see him more as a piece of meat to tear off the flesh, but a dating prospect, like Quinn, interested, a Mohawked possibility.

"And it has something to do with you, hasn't it Kurt?" Replied Quinn. "Well I couldn't help noticing you were the first person he stopped bullying out of everyone in Glee club. I don't know much about his audition but I overhead Mr. Schue say you auditioned him. Brittany said you're the one who'd asked him to get involved in the video and finally, from what I heard from Jessica Fay who's in your World History class, he was sitting nowhere near you when you fell, yet he still caught you."

"What are you getting at, Quinn? That Puck and I are close?" Asked Kurt frowning, his smile from before fading as conversation now waded itself into hazardous waters. Now he'd have to lie, and there was always a risk with lying, for the more you did it, the more you talked yourself into a corner. "Fine, I will admit, Q, that we are interacting more positively than before, you know, we're getting along, but honestly this change of his was all him. I don't know how it came about."

"Well it must have come about somehow. Boys don't just change like that," replied Quinn, shaking her head at the idea of a persona that large in a boy's body could manifest itself into something respectable. "Since freshman year he's always been a jerk, he's always had that Mohawk, always been on the football team, always been a womanizer. He was also such a  _cliché,_ like he lacked substance, like there wasn't much to him, you know, just a walking Letterman jacket with a bad attitude."

"Yeah..." murmured Kurt as he recalled throwing the exact same line at the jock in Sheets-N-Things. It had been at a time when he hadn't thought much of Puck, and Quinn had hit the nail on the head. There hadn't been much 'substance' to the boy, well, as much as a poorly written character in a teen movie - a 'cliche'. It most likely explained why Kurt never found him physically attractive. The jock had been a idiotic character, nothing but a vile image. Noah, on the other hand - the hero.

"But I'm no one to talk," sighed Quinn smiling in frank assessment. "I was the same last year. I was the blonde bitch and I was only happy as long as I got my way, and every girl wanted their way. I was just like every other cheerleader, cliché with no substance, like I wasn't human, but a plastic character from _Mean Girls_. So now, after I became friends with Brittany, after we became close, she made me come to my senses and now I'm just Quinn - ex-blonde bitch, who now likes Puck - ex-jerk."

"Well, there you are then. You're both a couple of ex's who like each other," smiled Kurt, popping a piece of muffin into his mouth as Quinn gazed fondly into space, as if she too were now imagining a Big Day with Puck, their first date, first kiss, first had sex, first everything, yet it only lasted for so long as the dream began to flounder into a neutral expression. Her grin faded into a thin line, her eyes now downcast and Kurt was left to look on worriedly. "What is it, Q? What's the matter?"

"It's nothing. I only wonder if Puck's changed completely," muttered Quinn, fiddling with her muffin and removing all the white chocolate chunks on it's skin, leaving behind hollow holes which littered the surface of the baked batter, yet the heat from her fingertips soon melted the chocolate as it melted on her heated skin tinged red with rose. "Do you think he still sleeps around? He's slept with so many, including 'MILFS' as he calls them, that it put me off in the past. It was just such a turn off."

"Well, I haven't seen him with anyone since Santana, but then I don't see him often," shrugged Kurt, Quinn disheartened by his reply. "Look, let's just assume he's not, okay. If you don't talk to him, maybe some other girl will. Maybe other girls who were put off by his promiscuous behavior like you are now thinking about, I don't know, asking him out. Maybe this change in him has matured him away from casual hookups and in to something more, maybe relationships. You never know."

"I guess. All I have to go on is how he used to be," sighed Quinn, plopping her half eaten muffin on the tray and grabbing a napkin to wipe her fingers, warm and sticky with liquid white chocolate as if she'd planted them in a cake and swirled her hands around in the messy butter cream icing. "You know the majority of the girls at McKinley, at one time or another, have had crushes on Puck and if he finds them attractive in return, nine times out of ten, he will have sex with them."

"Again, he might have changed, Q," reasoned Kurt, setting the tray aside allowing him room to shuffle closer to the blonde, who looked like words weren't going to reassure her to an extent of utter satisfaction. "I was once told that he used to sleep with at least three girls every week, around twelve girls per month, and that's excluding the 'MILFS' on the side, now like I said, I haven't seen him with anyone. I actually haven't seen him flirt with anybody or take anyone home. Have you?"

"Yes, as matter of fact I have," replied Quinn. "Just the other day I saw with his arms around Natalia Summers. I saw them getting into his truck after school, and then this morning I saw her looking utterly miserable. I also swear she wasn't walking properly either and her face was kind of sallow looking, but that's beside the point. Kurt, I don't want to end up the next victim of that boy. It's degrading and I'm not going to follow in the footsteps of my predecessors by becoming his whore."

"His whore? Quinn, who do you think Puck is? A pimp?"

"Kurt, would you be that surprised if he was?"

"Point taken, but seriously Q, I think your overreacting."

"I'm not, Kurt. I'm just telling you how I feel."

"Oh come on Quinn, how can think you're going to be like all the others. You're beautiful. When Puck has you on his arm, he's not going to be able to look at anyone else, but you," flattered Kurt, imagining how it would happen. Quinn would glance nervously in Puck's direction and tentatively, as if like a little child not knowing if they were liked or not, she would smile. That angel face, that would have Puck smitten down to his knees, hands out in a praise like fashion, 'go out with me! Please!'

"Forget Puck and forget your sexuality, flatter me again Kurt and I will have to jump on you," smirked Quinn, watching with pleasure as Kurt's cheeks rose with color. It occurred to her that he and her had very similar skin, both beige undertones yet fair like alabaster or porcelain, the surface on their faces almost like fine translucent paper as it let through the rouges of an embarrassed blush or an exhausted flush. Everything was picked up from rather talkative skin, their cheeky skin, their skin.

"Well at least give Puck a chance. Go and talk to him," encouraged Kurt, Quinn relenting with a little nod as she let in a deep breath before letting it out, as if she were pumping herself up for this. She must have really liked Puck, been waiting for something like this to come for some time, doubts and hesitation would not plague her on his opportunity. "And when the date is set and the hour nears, the night is not to end with sex; you just want to look like sex, like the trailer."

"I don't know about that, Kurt. I've never been any good at dressing provocatively. The sexiest outfit I own is this Cheerio's uniform and that's only because that's one of boys' most popular fantasies: to sleep with a cheerleader," replied Quinn, gesturing up and down her uniform. It certainly wasn't something to wear on a first date and considering she only wore rather conservative clothing, she would hardly have anything to wear that would have Puck eye fucking her into oblivion.

"I suppose we could ask Brittany. She might have something she could lend you perhaps," suggested Kurt, as he eyed Quinn's attire once again. Despite her lollypop licking, teddy bear hugging persona, Brittany did have an inordinate amount of skimpy, almost sluttish items of apparel hanging in her wardrobe. Whether the she was a prostitute by night or a gogo girl by day - outside school hours of course - was a conversation for another time, but for now, they were better than nothing.

"Oh, I don't think I could wear what Brit has. They're too out there. I wouldn't have the self confidence to pull them off," cringed Quinn as Kurt jumped off his bed and headed towards his laptop, scooping it up in his arms and bringing it back to the blonde, who was looking at the device with trepidation alongside a touch of excitement, watching as the pale boy clicked on numerous relative sites, advising them visually, inspiration feeding their collective minds for that perfect first date look.

"Let me see," muttered Kurt. despite her age, Quinn hardly resembled a little girl other than when she was in aid. If Kurt really was going to go along with this, to transform her image from a prim and proper cardigan pampered little suburban girl to a sex goddess meant to make any guy drool and cum in their pants at first sight, to satisfy and entice the man child that was Noah Puckerman, he was going to have to advise her in order to make that first impression, _the_  first impression.

"Now we don't want to whore you up like a Jersey Shore girl. That's a look Sweater Meat Lopez has perfected," continued Kurt in a cruel mocking tone, as Quinn smirked in amusement. "No we want a look that oozes innocently sexy, taking light influence from, I don't know, Jayne Mansfield or maybe Sheree North? Gee, there's just so many to choose from. Cleo Moore, Anita Ekberg, Diana Dors, oh, and of course, Marilyn Monroe. I really could go on forever... and it is so not helping."

"Yeah, all I can remember from those actresses are their platinum bleached blonde atrocities and breasts large enough to smother any man within five meters," replied Quinn, her voice in doubt. She didn't think it right to emulate fifties starlets, even if it was 'light influence', its Quinn Fabray she wanted Puck to see, just in clothing that didn't belong on Jackie Onassis. "Kurt, are you really sure you know what you're doing? No offense, but you've never once been on a date, have you?"

"No," replied Kurt coldly, fixing her with a look that had not welcomed her last comment. All right so he hadn't been on a date in his life, a life that was only seventeen years young. It wasn't tragic. After all, he had always believed dating to be more of an activity done in one's twenties. You were more mature, more independent, and more confident. That and not using pocket money given to you by your folks to pay for a date at some cockroach infested Motel Café on the out skirts of town.

"Sorry, that was uncalled for," apologized Quinn, as she took hold of Kurt's hand and rubbed it, so soft. For her, she knew she could just leave and seek help from another Cheerio. After all, most of them had gone out with Puckerman, they were bound to know more about him than Kurt apparently ever would, but then again, they had been dumped not just three days after their first date with the jock. They must have done something wrong. Maybe it was wise to take the boy's word for it.

"It's okay Q, even I would be wary to use me if I were you," muttered Kurt quietly, placing his hand over Quinn's, a sign no grudge was held, and even though he harbored no interest in dating now, he knew when he would be in the future; it would only be an endless struggle. Boys like him in the gay community were overlooked, shunned aside, in favor of their more grotesquely masculine counterparts. No man would date him. He'd have to take solace in the dramatic love lives of others.

"No Kurt, it's just that I'm just nervous, that's all," smiled Quinn, enjoying the idea of retro designs clothing her body with sleeveless bustiers, lace shorts or even a spaghetti-strap quilted dress to flow around her thighs like wind from over a tube grate. Sexy and feminine. Just her style. "First of all, a girl asking a guy out just comes across as desperate or psycho to me, and though that may be a turn on for the guy, I don't want him thinking it'll be that much easier for him to get me into bed."

"Well if you ask him out, he may be a little thrown by a girl being so forward, but a girl in control who knows what she wants could be attractive to him, again you never know, so embrace the feminist side in you and see how he takes it," suggested Kurt as he returned to his laptop. "Or if you want to go the old fashioned way, throw him signals and stroke his arm and he'll get the message, hopefully. I mean our super objective is for you to go steady with him. That's what you want right?"

"I'm only hoping for a date at this point in time, Kurt. We'll see where it goes," replied Quinn, letting out a small laugh as she watched Kurt scroll down the Macy's new Marilyn Monroe fashion line, a collection that intended to splice a modern twist on the blonde actress's style, the millennium on the polka dot fifties. "You know, it may turn out Puck and I won't work, we might not have that much in common or we might not be as into each other as we thought we were, although I hope we will be."

"There's no harm in planning ahead is there? We're just being optimistic here," shrugged Kurt light heartedly, turning away from the screen to face her. He didn't want to be on Quinn's back beyond the first date, he thought it best for her to figure out her own decisions, but a little advice might be in order from a friend. "Now look, the matter of becoming his girlfriend is a serious one. I say you'll have to keep him in a withholding pattern of at least nine dates before you consummate."

"You've got to be kidding me, Kurt. Puck's not going to want to wait that long to bed me no matter how pretty you're making me out to sound. You're going to have to be realistic here," replied Quinn. Boys like Puck apparently had 'needs', sexual desires to quench and there was no way nine dates spread over nine weeks was going to appease him. No doubt he'd be sexting other girls under the dinner table or in the movie theater or even worse, whilst she was actually talking to him.

"Quinn, If he doesn't book the next date because you haven't put out for him then you know he hasn't changed his ways. You'll know he's still out there for the sex," explained Kurt as if he already knew this, the inner most workings of men. "Whilst if he gives you time, respects your boundaries, and you know, acts like a gentlemen instead of a hormone raging sexpot, then you'll know he's in it for the long run, which gives you the power over the pacing, hence the withholding pattern. See?"

"I don't know, Kurt. He calls himself a 'Sex Shark'. That has to tell you a lot about him and his 'urges'. I don't even know what he likes to do in bed. I mean he's must have done things I can't even imagine, and frankly that scares me a little bit," muttered Quinn quietly, her brown eyes enlarged in perfect round circles, that of a chubby baby in a bucket. "Look I really think it should happen on the third date, you know, because then it just makes sense and everyone gets what they want."

"Alright fine. On the third date allow him to first base, on the sixth grant him second and on the ninth, give yourself to him, but make sure you fuck him good because otherwise all that working and waiting will have have gone to waste," replied Kurt, giggling as his crudeness earned him another light swat on the arm. "And on the topic of what does it for him in bed, you can either experiment and find out for yourself, or you can go to all the other Cheerios and ask them. They'll be sure to know."

"I can't experiment Kurt, I'm a virgin," admitted Quinn quietly as Kurt blinked rather forcefully in her wake as if he couldn't believe that such beauty had not had its petals removed to let forth a blooming woman underneath. This was great. Virginity for Puck. He was sure to have fun. "I've never done it before, even when I've had boyfriends, it never went that far. I have no moves and all I have to work with is my body, you know, jutting out my ass and dipping my boobs, all old school Marilyn."

"Quinn, as a rule, boys like virginity. You're 'untouched'. It'll do wonders do their pride that you're willing to give up such a thing to them," informed Kurt. The inexperience of female virgins was the only snag, but this only gave the male greater power, greater control, again increasing their sense of masculinity. "Listen Q, in the end, this is going to be a learning curve for both you and me. Whatever will happen will judge the advice I've been telling you, whether it's all rubbish or not."

"What do you think will happen?"

"I'd say judge it by your predecessors but after what you've said, I'd suggest not to."

"I guess I can always hope that this one will be different."

"That's the spirit, sister... nope, nope can't pull that off."

"Okay, I'm going to do it," replied Quinn determinedly, adrenaline now running through her similarly to how it did before a pep rally, gearing herself up for a good time. Her emotions tingled with thoughts of connecting with this newly improved Puck. Her lips yearned for the jock's, her body hummed with desire, arousal. She was prepared. "I'm going to ask him out, I'm going to make our dates count and hopefully I'll have him wrapped around my little finger by the end. How does that sound?"

"It sounds like something I've wanted to hear for some time now. I'm so happy for you, Q," smiled Kurt, tempting the blonde into a friendly hug that had the air around them in a cocoon of Quinn's Nina Ricci scented pulse points and Kurt's Coconut Candy locks, a cloud of sugar to seal the deal. "And don't worry, I'll laugh and dance with you if luck is on our side and I'll even go on an excessive ice cream face binge with you at Häagen-Dazs if the shit hits the fan so don't worry, I've got you."

"Will you still be there to listen if I ever need to recount what Puck and I may do... sexually?" Asked Quinn, Kurt now pondering the question ladled with vulnerability. Although he personally had had somewhat of a taste of the jock's libido as well as an impromptu showing that had left him shaken and uncomfortable, Quinn needed him. He knew what may be in store for her concerning sex and he only hoped Puck would be very gentle... like he had been with Kurt when they'd kissed.

"Sure, Quinn. Real life erotica storytelling is better than it coming out from some book, and you better tell it good at that, it'll be the only thing to come close to a sex life for me," laughed Kurt as Quinn nodded away, two virgins on a bed now giggling away with the libidos of sluts wishing to burst from them, from their burning loins, wishing to live out this high school love story, the cover had opened, chapter one. "Just you wait Quinn, this is going to happen, and it's going to be so much fun!"

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

This was going to be a disaster. The date, the outcome, everything. Granted the first set of baby steps into this whole arrangement had gone steadily well, what with Quinn having had the very next day sauntered up to Puck at his locker and taken matters into her own hands. She'd sent every luscious signal the jock's way, subtle in execution, classy in taste and a teasing nature behind every move. She'd worked her hips, leading her skirt into a constant state of flow and wave, revealing at times her dancer's thighs and the delicious globes of an ass so plump and full that the enticing draw in had not failed. Yet even though Puck had breathed a light 'sure' to  _the_  Beautiful Blonde of the school, Kurt's nerves were thick with worry.

Doubts plagued his mind, as if he were thinking of objecting to a wedding, the wrong woman in the bride's dress, the wrong man in the tuxedo. These doubts were plaguing him for said date was happening right now - Breadstix, seven o'clock, an Italian restaurant known for being a hotspot with teens, as well as for their poor quality food and rumored pantry stocked full of their crackling rock hard bread sticks. It was to be then followed by a romantic comedy at the movie theater, light and sickeningly fluffy, with idiotic dialogue jam packed with clichés, a film you'd not remember a single word of afterwards, for all concentration would be in the stalls, many hand placements, leg placements, shifting coordination and awkward poses.

Kurt attempted to hide his winces, each one more crow's feet inducing than the last, as he walked home from the grocery store with Mercedes, their hands ladled with shopping bags full to the brim with ingredients they would need for cooking Tater Tots later on that evening from a recipe he'd learned back in Home Economics. For Kurt, it was a therapeutic activity that often calmed him down, something about measuring flour reminded him of the lilac scented talcum powder his mother used to pat him with as a toddler, that and the fact that they were cooking Tater Tots. Perhaps the smell would distract him from the idea of Puck's hand slipping into Quinn's bra by accident, or her hand slipping and landing on his groin. Oh horror.

Of course there was no way Kurt was able to hide the agenda on his mind. Mercedes was very observant, picking up at how the boy's lips screamed in mercy as he bit down hard on them, as well as a set of breathing that vibrated as delicately as a silk thread blowing loosely on the wind. She knew what he'd done. He'd told her everything there was to know beginning with the revelation that he and Quinn, including Brittany, had been close friends since his first Cheerio practice back in September. He'd let her in on every stage of his plan since he'd learned of the blonde's attraction to the jock, yet by the end of it, all Mercedes had done was shake her head, as if someone had bestowed upon him too much power to play with.

Kurt had always been somewhat of a romantic, favoring love over lust, even though he'd never experienced the first and claimed he never would due to his 'effeminacy', a trait viewed as 'poison' by other gay men, the ultimate deal breaker. Such self-deprecating talk upset Mercedes, how he would belittle himself, undervalue himself sometimes for the sole purposes of humor or just tension release, and so what he envisioned he'd never get for himself one day like love, or even attention, he'd try to make happen for others, a thoughtful gesture brought on by a sad reality. It's what she thought anyway, as tragic as it was. She could not see any other agenda behind it, a true reason left unmentioned, just what she was given, what she saw.

"You know Kurt, Puck and Quinn are an easy picture to see and all, but just because they're under the same status ranking within school doesn't mean they're going to have any chemistry whatsoever," began Mercedes, looking over at Kurt with eyes of maturity. "I mean, Puck might find Quinn too much of a religious, uptight prude and she might find him to be nothing more than a big dull dud. You've really taken the superficial road here. Appearance over character and everything."

"When you're dealing with teenagers, you can get away with it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that they tend to be more… into the physical than adults."

"That's subjective, Kurt. Besides I thought Puck and Quinn disliked each other."

"That was before they changed for the better, 'Cedes. They're different now," replied Kurt, now forcing himself to stop biting at his abused cuticles in the midst of a haze of nerves intent on destroying the way he looked as well as his emotional well-being. He hadn't anticipated how draining this would be. "Look, even if I hadn't intervened they most likely would have dated anyway, it was inevitable. I'm just trying to speed the process along with a more pleasing result: an actual relationship."

"Kurt, kids our age aren't prepared for relationships. They're only sixteen. They don't know what they want, they don't know what it's all about," argued Mercedes as Kurt thought of the relationships that had been rushed into at McKinley, only to end a couple weeks later with time well wasted. Everything was half-assed, nothing really committed to, just sex. Romance had most certainly died. "Plus Kurt, I thought you were the one how said dating was more something you did in your twenties."

"I know and I stick to what I said, but I can't help it if people want to do it now. There's no talking it out of them," shrugged Kurt, shifting the weight of the grocery bags in his hand, the brown paper crackling ever so. "Don't worry 'Cedes, I'm not going to be setting anyone else up. It's not going to become a habit or anything. I was only helping out a friend figure out what she wanted and, you know, gave her little push in the right direction. There's nothing wrong with that is there?"

"Maybe not boo, but I still think you overlooked some things," replied Mercedes softly as she stopped. "You believe in love Kurt, and I'm happy that you do, but you don't know if Quinn and Puck will fall in love. To me it sounds like she's just horny for Puck now that he's her type, a type like you said she's been waiting a very long time for, which means she's only going to project this fantasy on him, setting up these enormous expectations which might promptly blow up in her pretty little face."

"They might not, 'Cedes. It could work out," protested Kurt lightly, his eyes now rendered innocent under the warm undertones of the streetlamp nearby. Mercedes, in response, rubbed his arm in a sisterly like fashion and smiled at a naivety so moving; she couldn't help but continue grinning. "And so what if Quinn lusts after Puck. After what every other girl he's slept with has said, I bet she's dying to sleep with him when the time comes. There's nothing wrong with that... is there?"

"Kurt, sweetie, why don't you tell me why you've really done this," encouraged Mercedes as Kurt cast a gaze of hesitation. He couldn't reveal that he was just using Quinn to rid himself of Puck and the jock's confused homoerotic feelings towards him, and yet though that sounded unbelievably selfish and manipulative, it wasn't as if the blonde was going to go home empty handed. After all, she was going to ride the 'Puckerman Wagon' at some point or another, like she'd always wanted.

"Do I have to have a motive?"

"Yes. I rarely see anyone do anything without a motive, Kurt, do you?"

"Touché."

"That doesn't really answer my question."

"I can't tell you 'Cedes. It's just one of those things. I can't be a human tape recorder to anybody, not even you," replied Kurt, encouraging her to resume their way back home with a light tug on her arm. His father would only fret if they didn't show up at home soon, yet no sooner had he started walking then he sensed no presence beside him. He turned around with eyes searching to see Mercedes looking to her left, almost peering as if catching two lovers in their sweating flesh.

"Kurt, come quick," gestured the diva, plopping down her bags and gesturing to him with wild, almost out of control arms as he came to follow her line of sight, eyes now widening at what he saw. There, only a few feet away was Breadstix, its neon sign shining bright in the sky reminding Kurt of those giant spotlights on the roofs of Art Deco movie theaters, but in gel form lettering. The pale boy couldn't believe he'd missed it just like that. It was right there and inside was the couple of the hour.

"Come on 'Cedes, we have to go. Do you know what will happen if either of them catch us here spying on them? They'll chase after us and we'll have nowhere to run but to Mexico," replied Kurt, his muscles now resting on solicitous bones as he observed the restaurant, some of the cats parked the spaces that blocked certain views of the building, but it was just as well. He was not going to allow Mercedes to do a repeat of what she'd done at Finn's Fancy Dress party. "'Cedes! Will you-"

"Come here. I think I see Puck and Quinn coming out… or at least it's them, I can't really tell from all these damn cars," whispered Mercedes as she beckoned him over to crouch down behind the set of slightly overgrown foliage. Kurt hesitated. He didn't want to spy anymore. This whole charade was getting out of hand, out of his control, yet as the diva grabbed his arm and wrenched him down to see through a little opening through the hedge, he was forced to look upon what he'd done.

Puck was opening the door for Quinn who politely thanked him before stepping out into the night air, the jock soon joining her as both of them became two stargazers of the night. Unfortunately, from this distance, Kurt couldn't hear a single word they were saying and it's not as if he could read lips. All he had to go on was how they were with each other, what they're body languages had to say, but it was clear to anyone that they were on their first date. That was for sure. Puck's shoulders and neck appeared tense with no full free flow in his upper body, no easy movement, whilst Quinn was finding it increasingly hard to look him in the eye, her hands clasped together in front of her as she underwent a never-ending stream of blushing.

"Well Kurt it seems to be going terrifically well," whispered Mercedes, her tone dripping with sarcasm as Kurt had to fight the urge not to kick her. He wasn't in the mood for it at all. "They look totally uncomfortable and nervous and I can actually feel the tsunami waves of awkwardness hitting me tenfold from all the way back here, although I've got to say you did Quinn up pretty good. At least you prevented her from coming out here dressed as a nun or a disciple from the last supper."

"Don't be mean."

"Well that's what she'd dress up as in Elementary school for every Mufti day we had. No joke."

"Uh huh, and what you dress up as? A gospel singer? Did you get your Mahalia Jackson groove on?"

"The only powerful black woman I ever dressed up as was me, Kurt... and sometimes Beyoncé and Oprah."

"Well in any case, it was hard to get Quinn into something that was both sexy and something that she believed wouldn't make baby Jesus cry, but I managed to squeeze her into something," replied Kurt, recalling what a task it had ended up being. Quinn - after much research online - had eventually conjured up for herself a vision, one she wished Kurt would help her interpret, although being Kurt, he'd taken control, grabbed the task by the reins and gone to town with it, literally.

He'd brought the blonde along to a little fashion shop he'd seen in Lima once or twice before, predictably named, 'MODE' _._ The interior, however, had been far from the cute exterior it had presented on the outside. The decor resembled nothing more than a stale oasis, aseptic and razor sharp as the cashier's hipbones. It seemed labels were the only sustenance to its customers who shopped there for lunch, and both he and Quinn had never felt more like beached whales in the midst of people who resembled nothing less than walking sinews. However, ignoring the anorexic induced themes that screamed out from the staff, no sooner had they entered the boutique than within five minutes they had found Quinn the perfect outfit.

It consisted of a nude camisole top made from semi sheer chiffon, a scooped neckline and a dipped back. Next were the blue skinny jeans crafted in cotton rich denim with a black as night wash, giving the illusion of longer, and lengthier looking legs to pull of even the most elaborate of pumps. The whole get up had suited the blonde's coloring to a tee, yet she had refused to wear heels, complaining that she didn't want her feet to be in pain by the end of the night, that and she found walking in them a real rope balancing act. So instead, Kurt had given her the all time classically young and feminine nude ballet pumps made with leather look upper, giving the impression she was wearing nothing on her feet, her beautiful feet, pale and bare.

In terms of hair and makeup, Kurt had left her to her own devices, thinking she knew her own face better than anyone and therefore withheld greater knowledge on to accentuate each feature, yet that didn't prevent them from sharing beauty secrets. Quinn preferred to go for the 'Country Blonde' look, one that had a soft-focus to the face, luminous with highlighter and full lipped with three drops of berry-shaded gloss, all natural with not much on. Yet as Kurt noticed the blonde's cropped overlay ruffle ever so slightly in the wind, the action drawing Puck's attention whilst Quinn blushed once again, her golden hair pooling around her shoulders like a cascade of sunshine gold _,_ he knew 'not much on' could mean so much more.

At this point in time, Kurt looked over in the jock's direction and hummed to himself in approval. He didn't think Puck would have put that much effort into a date he might have thought wouldn't be that much different from others but clearly, he was wrong. The jock was wearing a red cotton check shirt with a shaped hem for an improved fit; loose jeans constructed in washed indigo bade denim and a set of the all time American classic shoe, red Converse All Star's. His chin and jawline had been freshly shaved and his Mohawk had been trimmed to a height much lower than it had been in some time. In fact, if Kurt were to squint, Puck's haircut could almost come off as a light buzz cut, a look that would certainly suit the jock very well.

What was happening now? Weren't they going to see their movie? Had they already seen it before dining? If so, this was the point in the date when they would bid the other a good night, thank each other for the evening and be done with it, but both boy and girl stood there, feet planted, hands close to their bodies without even attempting to at least touch to one another, until one made the first move. Kurt looked on intently as Puck pulled his hands out from his pockets, stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Quinn with his hands resting on her waist. It was just how his pale tutor had demonstrated weeks ago in their lessons, and he couldn't help but widen his blue eyes in ardor as Puck gently brought the blonde in for the kiss.

He couldn't tell what kind of kiss they were engaging in, but it looked as if even from this distance and low angled position, it was one that they were both doing well. If it had not been for the uncomfortable and untimely truckloads of tension that had clouded over the couple, Kurt might have criticized them reaching first base at such an early stage, but desperate times had called for desperate measures and Puck had taken one good judgement call and saved them both. Eventually, the kiss ended softly and both Mercedes and Kurt could only tilt their heads to the side as they sighed together in contentment, the moon shining down on the romantic couple underneath very much like it did in a Disney movie, yet something caused Kurt to blink.

Whilst he was almost giddy with joy that Quinn was smiling and blushing all over again, as if she was very happy with how everything had turned out, Puck's face didn't seem to reflect the positivity at all. His stone like expression was one mixed with what looked like disappointment and dissatisfaction, as if the kiss had done nothing to spur him on, done nothing to interest him, had done absolutely nothing _._ Such a response angered Kurt, the boy watching with aggravation as Puck retracted his arms from around the blonde before leading her back over to his truck parked neatly near the entrance. It had failed. Quinn had been his last card to play and now he had nothing, an empty hand. It was only a matter of time now.


	18. J'Adore

The day was upon them - Brittany's music video. All choreography was set to be filmed on the playing fields, with additional photography of individual dancers as well as couples set to be shot later. The weather - as predicted by the weather forecast - was being cooperative, blessing them all with sunshine, which would now make good use out of the reflectors. The AV club was setting up base at the foot of the bleachers, lining themselves up with the center of the field and erecting a large array of equipment, not least of which was the camera, manufactured by Sony, a monstrous heavy thing with an intimidating lens, considered by some of the more self-conscious dancers as 'Satan's Eye', one that caught everything and missed nothing.

Now as Kurt came walking out on to the field, scanning the marked plains for the cast and crew, he couldn't escape the energy. Everyone was in high spirits. The incessant dance rehearsals had given way to the actual filming date and they were ready to capture their well-practiced moves on film. However, such moves had never been rehearsed in their costumes - altered variations of their original Cheerio outfits, and all daringly close to indelicacy, each one tailored and unique to each dancer. Stockings made to resemble football socks with some wearing skirts, others leggings. Sneakers had been replaced with heels, bare hands with fingerless gloves and some had strapless lingerie bras whilst others, bondage like corsets.

For Kurt, he was reminded of his time backstage prior to the 'Can't Speak French' performance weeks ago and how relieved he'd been that he'd not have to dress up like an underage girl fully trussed up in a 'naughty-naughty' pig tail like outfit. Savvy modesty had clothed him that day, except at this hour, it had left him to the mercy of the camera. At his costume fitting, Brittany had wished to show off his slender body he hid too many a time, with nothing on him but her cherry shaded Lululemon yoga pants that came down to his calf, white R&B style sneakers that caught the sun with impressive attention and lastly a black lace headband that came around his head with its ends falling behind him, his very own lingerie ponytail.

Kurt hadn't known what to think of the outfit when he'd first been clothed in it. The idea of stepping out onto the playing field bare chested as well wearing his other items of apparel caused him mountains of anxiety. Even the idea of getting changed into such a look in the locker rooms unnerved him, not because he was ashamed of his body, but because of the idea of his skin on show, as if it were a virgin in itself, untouched by the human eye, many of which now landed on him as he made his way over to his fellow Cheerios, all of them stretching and warming up. They eyed him, looked amongst each other and whispered and his hands itched to cover his raw nudism, his natural state, but he didn't. What he had on, he'd work with.

However, as he came to find his own space on the field, he noticed the only one who had not taken note of him was Quinn. The blonde had placed herself at the back, separating herself from everyone else like the lone straggler unable to keep up with the herd. She was prepping her body albeit with a look of forlorn, her face bereft of cheer from recent pain. Kurt knew that if she were to keep such an expression up, Artie would not be able to film her. 'Her eyes are dead', he would say with concern as Brittany would attempt to revive them with consolation, to return the twinkle into eyes now resembling those from a taxidermy, 'her presence is distant, her body is not with it and the camera is not picking anything up. She is gone'.

Ever since her date with Puck, little genuine news had surfaced, apart from ghastly rumors fresh from the gossip mill that behaved like irritating verbal viruses around the school. Anyone of decency hadn't credited them or acknowledged them with a single response, yet for Kurt, it only increased his desire to learn what had really gone down that night. However, inquiring after them proved to be fruitless. Quinn wasn't talking to him, or anyone to be exact. Like Puck, she'd kept to herself and had not said a word or uttered a single sound to anyone, though through observation of her overall reclusive behavior and solemn demeanor, a safe assumption was made by everyone at McKinley, that her date with Puck had not at all gone well.

Wishing to end this silent treatment, Kurt weaved his way through the Cheerios, dodging extended arms and outstretched legs before coming to stop before Quinn, his distance generous so that he didn't run the risk of starting her. As she eventually came to learn of his presence, she peered up at him to see an apologetic smile painting his lips, her own attempting to stretch, to reach the apples of her cheeks in return, but she couldn't. Her smile would never reach such heights at such an earlier time, let alone her eyes, which ghosted over Kurt's attire with what came across as a pleasant surprise, before lowering her gaze to the ground as if they belonged there, there to stay and remain as she resumed her stretches.

Kurt sighed. There was no point trying to talk with Quinn if she wasn't ready to. She'd have to come to him, that's if she ever would. He did feel partly at fault in all of this, or perhaps all at fault, he didn't know. He hadn't planned the actual date, he'd just set it up, which made it all the more frustrating that he didn't know what had happened, yet he was soon distracted as Quinn had straightened herself up and had inched her way closer to him. Her eyes continued to look down at the ground with only short glances past Kurt's shoulder as if she were hiding from something, or someone, using him as her own little human bush for a game of hide and seek. Yet as the pale boy followed her line of sight, he saw them. The boys were here.

All of them, similar to the Cheerios, were clad in their own altered uniforms. The male cheerleaders wore their original Cheerio Pants and wrist sweat bands, but with Haradrim like war paint staining their bare chests, arms and face, rendering them a more fearsome appearance as if like blood red hunters from the south. The football players were similar in their look in that all of them wore spin off takes of their Titan uniforms. Some wore their helmets, girdles and printed jerseys, some wore their shoulder pads that looked if they had been dunked haphazardly in the blood of their opposing team, yet most of them were shirtless, their torsos almost slashed in army war paint, and all keeping truthful to the red, white and black color scheme.

Looking at them now, Kurt couldn't help but feel like the odd one out in terms of his outfit, as if he now joined Quinn in a sense of exclusion. What had he had on was something Brittany had had in mind specifically for him, for her 'Happy Unicorn' - the stand out male. She hadn't wished him to be like all the others, for he had what the others didn't have. ' _The gay look?_ ' Kurt had asked flatly as Brittany had frowned, getting the impression he was ashamed of it, ashamed of a highlight that was far out and peregrine, that was Kurt. She'd wished him to embrace his effeminacy, to wield it in a way that worked for him and that the contrast between his lean physique and that of his more muscular counterparts, would be effortlessly striking.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of cheap wolf whistles and the occasional catcalls coming from the boys as they watched the female Cheerios warm up with heated almost predatory eyes as if resembling a pride of male lions eying potential mates, only to let of moans of loss as the girls straightened up and ended their stretching show. Except the only one not participating in any of this was Puck, who was eying the ground as he kicked the dust ridden dirt with his sneakers, his hands in his football pant pockets as his face remained on the verge of a neutral scowl. He never looked up, never joined in and kept a distance from his peers, like Kurt and Quinn, the straggler, the stray, wishing not to get involved, ever quiet.

Looking back over at Quinn, as she too looked fixedly down at the ground, her foot digging into the grass, Kurt tapped her on the shoulder and proceeded to sit her down on the ground beside him. He looked back around him, noticing the Cheerios and Titans were now all mingling near the bleachers with Brittany still in last minute discussions with Artie and he took this up as time to talk to Quinn, to maybe inquire as to what had really happened that night. Yet, as he took in the blonde's made up face, she looked exhausted, as if the slap on her skin made to make her youthful and radiant somewhat aged her, as if she herself were about to faint right under the sun, an expression that spoke volumes about everything that had happened.

"Quinn, I'm so sorry," began Kurt with a look that across his apology into the physical, thought Quinn didn't see it. Her gaze had once again lowered to the ground where she'd now taken up plucking individual blades of grass out of the soil and twisting them in her fingers, a green hue now staining her skin. It made them look sickly and unwell, as if she'd caught something, but she didn't seem to care, not even to acknowledge Kurt's apology with an answer as small of a measly nod.

"I really thought it would have worked out, you know," muttered Quinn, her volume low and nearly incomprehensible even with the light breeze around them as Kurt strained to hear her words. At least he was thankful she was speaking to him. She didn't have to in such a place and at such a time, but she was willing to offload on him what had happened, or at least that was the direction Kurt assumed she was heading in, hopefully. "I really thought that date was something we both wanted."

"I know Q, I know. I thought so to," replied Kurt sympathetically, bringing out his hand and rubbing it up along her arm as if warming her up. The sun at this moment was still shining, but the dreary nature of their conversation had since removed all heat from it's gaze, there was no warmth to offer them, a feeling Quinn must have been experiencing for days now. "Quinn, is there anything I can do? You want to come over to mine after school and have that Häagen-Dazs binge I promised you?"

"Thanks, but maybe another time. I've not been so hungry."

"Sure, okay... you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know if I'm ready to."

"Yeah... that's fine, that's fair... so when do you think we're going to start shooting already-"

"It's just I don't understand when everything went wrong," blurted Quinn suddenly, cutting Kurt off as he realized she was now very much ready to talk, and talk she did, with much bold vigor and volume. "One minute I'm eating Mesclun greens and Puttanesca whilst he's eating fried chicken and breading, you know, talking about our families and friends, and then the next he's distant, he's unresponsive and he hardly touches his food as if that was all the effort he was going to put into the date."

"Really?" Asked Kurt, her irritation towards Puck growing as Quinn recalled the night's events. Despite the change in Puck's behavior half way through dinner, she hadn't drawn attention to it, apart from asking if everything was alright. 'Sure, you?' Puck had asked her in return, to which Quinn had nodded back sweetly, disguising what she'd really felt behind her bright smile. "Well, did he at least pay the bill and drive you home afterward? He didn't leave at the restaurant all alone, surely."

"Oh no don't worry, he stuck around until the end. He was always with me, it's just that I got the impression his mind wasn't," sighed Quinn as she looked back down at the ground, more blades of grass being lazily plucked. "We didn't see the movie in the end. He said he was too 'tired' and I didn't say anything, I mean, I didn't care about seeing it, I just cared about our date. I didn't want it to end early and on a low note, you know, but I didn't know what to do so... I let him kiss me."

"It's alright Q, it's not your fault. You did what you had to do. So... how was it?" Asked Kurt cautiously as Quinn raised her eyes to look ahead in thought. This was a question Kurt knew he'd wished to ask with high anticipation, for the opinion of a third party member like Quinn would offer him feedback as to how good a job he'd done with teaching Puck how to kiss. Even though he'd found the jock to have improved, he wondered if Quinn shared his views on what constituted a 'good kiss'.

"It was... um... good. A bit brief, but it was fine," replied Quinn as she resumed to tear out more blades of grass. In response, Kurt fell into disappointment, as 'fine' was just another way of saying a generic 'okay' or worse, 'not very good'. From where he'd been sitting, he'd thought Puck had done a good job. Then again, he'd not been in Quinn's shoes. Maybe she'd sensed a lack of emotional connectivity kissing Puck's alleged poker face, reflecting the drab and prosaic date itself.

"Oh, I would have thought that would have been part of the date he'd have been gone at," murmured Kurt, his voice now wavering with a light breath of amusement, humor coloring his words as Quinn all but nodded in response. Really Kurt was still hung up that Puck by the sounds of it hadn't put any heart into the kiss, and a 'brief' one at that. It was a half-assed attempt and he knew the jock was capable of much more. He knew it. "So, what happened next? Was that the end?"

"No, it wasn't," began Quinn uneasily, shifting her gaze over to Brittany who was by this time rounding everyone up with the use of Sylvester's megaphone that the coach had lent her for the shoot, yet Quinn pressed on. "He drove me home and dropped me off. Actually he walked me to my door and said goodnight, but like I said, I didn't want the date to end and since the kiss didn't seem to do all that much I found myself asking him if he wouldn't mind, you know, coming in for a nightcap."

"A nightcap as in..." began Kurt, his voice trailing off in the wake of a gaping mouth as he took in Quinn's nod of confirmation. He couldn't believe it. She must have been desperate, thinking that by the end nothing was going to perk Puck's interest other than what she'd suggested, yet feared, something she hadn't thought she'd have to resort to, an act that Kurt had strongly advised not to do on a first date, sex hidden behind a thinly veiled euphemism. "Oh my... and what he did say?"

"He said 'sure'. That's all he said," murmured Quinn. "I took him up to my room and, you know, locked the door. Even though no one was home, I didn't want to risk it. I asked him if he had a condom and he pulled one out of his pocket, just like that. I mean, I didn't know what I was supposed to say or do. I think he knew I was a virgin in that moment, so I did as he said, got naked and lay on the bed, and that's when we did it, but... oh Kurt, it hurt, it hurt so much, not just for me but for him too."

"Really?" Asked Kurt in shock as Quinn's memories of the last agonizing moments of her date resurfaced in jets, very similar to the jets of pain she'd suffered during the sex. Puck's manhood upon entrance had felt so large that she'd screamed, as if he'd been ripping her in two, tearing her up from the inside. Whereas for Puck, all she'd noticed were his moans of discomfort and yelps of muffled anguish into her neck and pillow. Not surprisingly, neither of them had reached orgasm that night.

"I think at one point... I bled, Kurt. I could see my blood on his thighs."

"Oh my God."

"And I had to change and wash the sheets right after he left."

"Oh Quinn."

Nothing more could be uttered on the subject as Brittany came running up to them, her cheeks flushed red, claiming it was time, before leading them back to rejoin everyone else. Yet neither one of them spared any of their peers a glance as they returned. Amidst the hustle and bustle, everyone assembling their own designated starting positions, they just got on with it, even though their thoughts were heavily preoccupied with their previous talk. A bad date, bad sex and bad repercussions all now amalgamated together to create tension that everyone could feel as both Puck and Quinn were now supposed to dance together to a song about sex, yet how was that to happen when they couldn't bring themselves to look at each other.

Kurt didn't think he could feel any worse. He'd pushed this to happen. He'd known Puck hadn't returned Quinn's affections from the start yet he'd still encouraged the blonde to go along with it. No wonder it had ended the way it had. It had been inevitable, but yet again, Kurt had ignored the signs in favor of his own selfish gains, rendering him a bad person and a bad friend. His punishment was deserved. Catching glimpses of both Puck and Quinn dancing together was a torment. The jock's body was as tense as ever, his movements almost arthritic and palsied, whilst Quinn's face, contorted in expressions of strain, appeared to suffer from distress further down south, as if the fear of a trickle of blood down her thigh petrified her.

Kurt's punishment only worsened as Artie, who had been sitting alongside the cameraman, caught sight of what was going on with the two and called them out on it, shouting out ' _cut!_ ' more times than Mercedes used it herself to threaten people. Apparently, Puck's moves were out of synch, falling behind the tempo and Quinn's facial spasms of pain were in plain sight, not to mention the fall of chemistry, as well as the tension they exuded, something that kept everyone else from complaining, or even throwing them both scathing looks of fury. In fact, with each take, the tension rose, resulting in every other dancer improving, providing the best performance that was now only occasionally marred with mistakes from the tense couple.

Eventually, mid way through shooting the final chorus of the song, Artie shouted out ' _cut!_ ' for the final time. Crying out the same word and same criticisms through the megaphone had exhausted his voice, very much like it had exhausted the body's of all the other dancers - where was the chemistry? Where was the connection? Quinn was a figure in embarrassment whilst Puck looked like he couldn't take the humiliation any longer, as if he was about to bark out ' _fuck this shit!_ ' and be done with it, but he didn't. The jock could never do such a thing to Brittany or Kurt for that matter as the jock glanced over at the pale boy looking at the ground, his lace head band waving around him as if he were mourning something he'd lost within himself.

"Puck! Quinn! You know what you're doing wrong! Get it right!" Cried out Artie as he rolled himself forward as Kurt winced for the hundredth time that day. The bespectacled had clearly not heard of their failure of a date. He might have gone easier on them if he had, but since he'd hadn't, it just made it that much harder for Kurt not to shout it out to him, to make the boy shut up. These two were doing the best they could. "And Puck stop looking at Kurt! Don't look at him, look at Quinn!"

"Fuck off Abrams! You're not the one dancing!"

"And Kurt's not the one you're dancing with Puck! Quinn is! So make eye contact with the camera as well as her!"

"Whatever."

"And that goes for everyone! Alright from the top people!"

At the mention of Puck looking at him, Kurt's eyes widened as his line of sight froze on the patch of grass at this feet. He dared not shift his gaze as he felt everyone turn to eye him curiously, eventually retracting their attentions as they all mentally blamed it on his unique outfit. Yet Kurt had to know that Artie had spoken the truth, that Puck had been so reckless as to have his eyes repeatedly on Kurt to escape the torture that was dancing with Quinn, as if the jock were a thirteen year old boy climbing the brick wall overgrown with Poison Ivy, sacrificing his health just to catch a glimpse of the fair beauty sunbathing on the lawn next door, and it was true. Puck had been looking at him. The jock was looking at him right now.

As the sun made its way across the sky, both Puck and Quinn made fewer and fewer mistakes to the point that within the next hour, all choreography had been filmed successfully. No one's desire to hear 'that's a wrap' had ever been as great as when Artie had formed the words in the microphone, and now that the shoot had ended, everyone lay on their backs exhausted, with some spraying their heads and faces with their water bottles, some loosening their uniforms and throwing their accessories aside and others shaming a dog's pant, as if they didn't care how they looked any more, for they were hot, bothered and sweaty messes in desperate need of a shower, to wash away the bane and strain of such an afternoon.

Filming had proved to be more strenuous that a typical Cheerio and Titan practice combined and as a result, the AV club did not receive a single offer of help from the cast to help pack away the equipment, but it was just as well. No one was in any fit state to fiddle around with extension cords or carry large loads of it all back into the school, not even the boys. No one had the strength, whilst others were curious to see the end result. However, it had been overheard by some that despite principal photography having consisted of five filming days in total - impressive for a student film project - editing would take around a month or two until it could be premiered, and with Brittany wishing for the best, it could take even longer.

Opening his locker and pulling out his Jo Malone shower products and towel, Kurt made his way towards the cubicle at the far end of the showers. This was the the cubicle he always used since no one else strayed far from the one's nearest to the entrance and he preferred it for it's secluded, somewhat hidden position where he could wash himself in peace and not worry about being accused of 'perving' on another boy's 'junk', not that he would even if one was forced to share his cubicle. Kurt liked to think he had very good self-control. He had no problem turning a blind eye to forbidden view. In fact, no matter how attractive a boy was, he could easily not look his way in favor of going about his own business, in this case, showering.

However, things he could no longer ignore were the sad state of affairs of the past few days. Already things were crumbling and it was only a matter of time before a new breed of rumors were due to pop up on Jacob Ben Israel's blog of lies, but not rumors that had a chance of being at all credible, but the kind only fabricated to end one's dignity on the execution block, the deadliest of them all. Earlier versions of them had already surfaced, ranging from Puck standing Quinn up at the restaurant, Puck coming onto Quinn in the middle of dinner, earning him a hard slap around the face, and the worst, Puck standing Quinn up only to hook up with none other than his ex-girlfriend, Santana, in Breadstix's very own restroom a few meters away.

All of it was just pure rubbish meant to fuel student interest into visiting Israel's trashy website, bringing about only one conclusion. If a simple date that hadn't worked out had manifested itself into the juiciest gossip in school, what the hell was it going to be like with Puck, the bad ass sex shark of McKinley, now exhibiting homosexual behavior towards the 'gayest gay boy alive'? The question dominated Kurt's mind to such an extent that when he came to turn off the shower, pat himself dry and collect his things to head out, he didn't think much to his footing. The tiled floor of the shower shone slick with water, and as he stepped onto the hazardous shiny surface, his balance trembled and gave way, sending him falling to the ground.

Landing smack down on his stomach as if he'd been slapped terribly hard with an unforgiving paddle, Kurt watched with pinched eyes as his shower products escaped from his hand and skidded across the ground, the lid of his shampoo bottle snapping open and pouring out into the water. Pump, pump, pump, the liquids seem to escape profusely, slowly emptying from their containers in a way Kurt imagined unstoppable, yet he mentally congratulated himself instead for not hitting his chin and bruising his face on the ground, one less pain having to experience after his stomach and whole body shook with rivets of hurt. He was sure one day someone was going to crack their skull open if they weren't careful as he hadn't been.

Now observing his surroundings as he attempted to get up, Kurt made to salvage his belongings and leave with any hanging scrap of dignity he had left, yet before he could heave himself back up, a large hand that he knew all too well descended in front of him, accompanied by a black towel encircling a well-built waist. Taking the help without thinking, Kurt was helped up back onto his feet, yet instead of giving thanks, all he could really do was wince in pain as he felt a new set of bruises form. His body wasn't prone to 'bruising like a peach', since his skin was soft, yes, but no less resistant to the outside world and its attacks, but through all the drama, both inflicted on him on the inside as well as the out, it was struggling to keep up.

Kurt whimpered at the thought of his poor body receiving such an undeserved beating, well, deserved if were to think of what he'd done to Quinn, but as he lifted his gaze to see Puck eying his reddening stomach with concern, his eyes roaming the flesh once so fair, now blackened with Byzantium purple, he started to panic. The jock was now approaching him, had raised those hazel eyes to his own, and was keeping them there, but Kurt had had enough. All these non-verbal signs was a tedious game that had messed him around for too long. He wasn't prepared to put up with the emotional drain it had on him and he wished nothing more but to cry out to Puck, ' _what the hell do you want from me?!_ ', but he didn't. Not here, not now.

Kurt's hand was pulled free from Puck's grip soon after, with the pale boy praying that no one around them had witnessed their odd interaction. Steam from the showers - that were one by one turning on - were indeed reducing clear visibility, clouding everything and engulfing everyone until all that remained was both him and Puck, alone in this abyss of white water vapor. It rose to their torsos yet as Kurt made to round the jock, he felt a hand caress his fingers and his beautiful bruises, now worn like natural tattoos or raw hickeys of love under Puck's traveling touch as if he believed it belonged there, as if it was right. To Kurt, it was soft, tender even, nice, but he didn't look back. He didn't have to. He knew he was being watched.

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

_Let me up, take me higher, breathe me in, my desire_   
_No regrets, don't deny it, play to win, play to win..._   
_I know what they say and none of them know, you make me feel safe j'adore, j'adore_   
_I know what they say and none of them know..._

Another day, another gym class, and yet again, another hour with Ms. Sosa. The nature of it all was just incessant. This was the fourth time running that the teacher had had to substitute for Mr. Onira, their actual designated gym teacher, for the man was yet again absent, and no one knew why, not that anyone in the end cared. The fact that there were no rumors going around concerning his poor attendance record spoke volumes of how little influence he as a teacher sparked interest amongst his students, only, in fact, frustrating them when he didn't have the courtesy to leave behind a cover lesson sheet that had on it all they had to learn in their period, allowing Mr. Sosa now free reign to do whatever she liked with them.

However, it wasn't as if the heavily made up teacher with pumps that dented the wooden floor as if she were stabbing it relentlessly to leave behind wounds just slightly smaller than those inflicted from a bullet, was exactly happy to cover for them, more along the lines of unenthusiastic. It was off to the store closet again to fetch the mats, half brand new and others aged and stained, as if sweat had made its mark there forever, only to roll them all out in front of a TV on a trolley, a Yoga video appearing on the screen in static like fashion before the picture settled into a clear definition. Yet from a screen as small as it was, it was nothing but a blur for those at the back, heavy pixels too strenuous to squint at. Very useful indeed.

Instructions were simple - to partner up and to do whatever the actors on the screen showed them to do, and if these instructions were questioned from anyone including the jocks claiming they 'didn't give two shits about all this stupid ass yoga crap', then they'd be forced to exercise to the whole DVD in front of everybody who would be ordered to point and laugh at them as they failed, a lesson in high status humiliation right there. So, following the possibility of such a punishment, everyone set about to find a partner, leaving Kurt to sit cross legged on his mat at the back, staring at the ground and hoping no one would approach him. He needed to be alone right now. He had too many things to mull over in his head.

It had been weeks since Puck and Quinn had gone out, and interest in their date had begun to wane, with not even Jacob Ben Israel highlighting the multiple versions of the story on his website keeping it going on any more. By now, the two were no longer feeling the brunt of every hushed whisper and stolen glance the school population could throw at them. In fact, Quinn had been behaving as if nothing was wrong anymore, as if such news that was only a week old was much older than it really was. She had dismissed the date as a past mistake and had set about to be more careful, wary and vigilant when it came to courting boys in the future, as well as learning not return to Kurt for dating advice again, which was fair enough.

However, whereas as she had been acting her way through the days, Puck had not at all attempted to hide the way he was feeling. Over the course of the week, his mood had soured into a foul temper, as if the Balrog like beast within him were freeing itself from it's chains and threatening to launch itself from his chest in a flare-up of wild anger. It had since lead to a number of vicious outbursts, including having shoved anyone who'd strayed in his path into lockers, answering back to his teachers and overall rendering himself completely disagreeable to be around. Most had feared him to have returned to his tyrannical ways, that a darkened age had once again fallen upon them, yet only two had seen through all the malice. Two.

"Kurt?" Came a voice as the fair boy was brought out of his contemplations to see Brittany crouching down before him, their eyes now level as they took each other in. He hadn't spoken to the girl often since filming on her music video had wrapped a week ago. She'd been completely preoccupied in postproduction, overseeing Artie with the editing and resulting in no time for hanging out, too long a time in their opinions now that both of them were here. "Hi. Do you want to be partners?"

"Sure, okay," replied Kurt, gifting Brittany with a smile she'd seen so many times on Artie's Mac screen when reviewing the footage. Whilst all the other girls in the video had either requested that when filming, only their good side be shot, that soft lenses be used for closeups or for no close-ups at all, Kurt had asked and only asked at the end, 'was I good?', and Brittany had replied, 'you were magnificent', 'you're not just saying that, are you?', 'no Kurt, I mean it', and she really had done.

"Actually Britt, Kurt's my partner. Scat," ordered a voice behind the blonde as she whipped her head around to see a pair of legs that supported no other but the intimidating figure of Noah Puckerman. His threatening stance was so great in fact it had her keeling over on her crouched legs and bumping into Kurt's crossed ones, soon recovering herself, yet as she made to stand, Kurt grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her back down, his eyes never faltering to stray far from Puck's hazel orbs.

"I would actually prefer to have Brittany as my partner, if you don't mind," replied Kurt, emotion stripped from his tone, from his voice like bark peeled from the tree. Not that Puck had one again begun harassing him during his poor disposition, and that Kurt knew it all was a way of expressing the inner conflict building in pressure within the jock, he just did not appreciate having had Brittany so rudely addressed as if she were a mingy old dog. What Puck had said had been completely out of line.

"It's not as if you have a choice in this Hummel, alright. I'm working with you," answered Puck matter a factly, silencing him as if Kurt's opinion in this meant nothing, that his say in this whole thing was irrelevant and nothing but unnecessary. "You hear that, Britt? Hummel's my partner. Payback I think for the same thing you did to me that one time, remember? So you can either leave now and find someone else or you can stay here and have me kick your ass off this mat. It's up to you."

"She's not going anywhere Puckerman, she's staying right here," argued Kurt, eying the boy with pumping irritation, internally wishing him go find some girl who would no doubt appreciate him more, like Natalia, some rows down. They'd engaged in the most animalistic aerobic positions and then some. Puck could dig his hands into her as much as he wanted, be rough with her as he had been, treat her like a piece of flesh with a wet slot, hurting each other, wild and painful.

"Pierce. Leave. Now," seethed Puck, his eyes narrowing as he fixed the blonde with a look that had her believing he'd have no problem going along with his treat. The clenched fists, the palpitating veins now more pronounced, looking angry, ever so angry as if the jock were about to transform into a beast, burning up, about to kill the dumb cheerleader stranded on the floor. She had no choice but to move, but yet again Kurt kept a firm hold of her, keeping her down as he bravely spoke.

"No, Puckerman. Leave  _us_  alone. I don't want you."

"Why the hell not Hummel?"

"Because you're being an asshole."

"Like I give a fuck."

"What is the matter with you?" Asked Kurt appalled, Brittany watching as he looked accusingly back at Puck as the jock gave off the impression he wasn't fazed at all, until she caught sight of the smallest twitch in his face, a twitch that could have been interpreted as a freshly ignited fuse of anger or a simmering fuse of cussedness nearing its end. "You think after how you've just treated my friend, I'm going to want to work with you? What kind of delusional world are you living in?"

"This one, the one where you stop bitching and you be my partner," answered Puck, descending to Kurt's level at such a speed it was as if he'd been plummeting from a skyscraper down to see him. As a result, both the fair boy and his blonde shuffled backwards in fright, holding each other tightly, fingers grasping onto their clothes for support, yet no sooner had Puck registered their reactions, seeing both their eyes flooded in consternation, he bowed his head, his breath quivering.

"It's okay Kurt, I'll go," whispered Brittany, the pale boy looking over at her as she kept her eyes on Puck, who'd yet to move from his position, head still bowed as if kneeling before a gravestone. Somehow she felt she was getting in the way of something big that was about to happen, a planned event, one that had been anticipated for a week, and despite Kurt thinking ill of Puck's behavior right now, she knew the jock was just nervous, nervous for something big. "See you later."

"No, don't go Britt. You can't leave me alone with him. He doesn't look... stable," whispered Kurt as Brittany's eyes saddened at the sight of Puck's shoulders sagging in rejection, his head bowing ever lower as if the weight of the fair boy's hurtful words were crushing him to the ground. It was heart-rending to see, and so with a rub of his shoulder, the blonde left him alone with the jock, who raised his mohawked head to see Kurt now lying back down on the mat, body tense, eyes closed.

With the descent of his lids, Kurt could now pretend he was at home, practicing Yoga in his bedroom atop a carpet of red, white and blue, the fifty stars of each state right beside him. He reveled in the fact that the nature of the practice not only offered one mental discipline and a sense of relaxing spirituality, but that the physical aspect of it increased flexibility, which was culturally perceived as an attractive trait. It improved circulation, which nourished his muscles with increased blood flow, and it helped improve his balance and coordination, a feeling of bodily enrichment that had Kurt now opening his fluttering eyes to try and make out the TV screen at the far end of the room, only to look upon Puck, still crouching right in the way.

Kurt had the impression that the jock was nearer to him than he had been earlier. His presence was heavier, more distinct and the fine flossy hairs on his ivory skin - too fine to grace the naked eye - now picked up the closing proximity, for they were close. Puck was looming over him like a lover in the morning, content on rooting himself there and coating Kurt with his gaze as if the sun pouring in through the windows of the bedroom were of no interest to him except what it's golden rays were shining on - a pale figure, soft and pure, though now flushed in a mounting mood of irritation. Kurt did not appreciate the attention. He didn't want it, he didn't want a statuary partner, a bronze effigy of a jock with blinking eyes of rich hazel.

Giving up on the television screen and taking his own initiative, Kurt looked away, bringing his knees to his chest and hugging them, lifting his bee-stung like lips up to his caps and kissing each one, smooching them lovingly, saying hello, almost resembling a baby animal, freshly hatched and breathing for the first time. Yet no sooner had he mounted his position then his arms began to labor with the weight of his legs wishing to return to the semi supine position. His hands slipped on his Cheerio pants, the boy now cursing that he'd overdosed on the fabric softener when he'd washed them last and so as he fumbled to retain a firm grip on resistance working against him, he relented to raise his orbicular eyes to Puck's for help.

Within the next second, his hands had been replaced with those of such size that Kurt could only tremble with excitement as Puck came to kneel at his rear, the jock keeping the boy's knees to his chest with a comfortable pressure with Kurt's feet now resting on one fine shaped chest. It had Kurt feeling every one of Puck's inhale's and exhale's, with his toes just high enough in a position to catch the beating of a heartbeat, a strong one, as if it too was a hunk of an organ. The jock was just the definition of physical strength without qualification, and Kurt was certain to be safe with such strength handling him, spotting him, as a ' _thank you_ ' was begrudgingly uttered from his parted lips, with a quiet ' _you're welcome_ ' following soon after.

Once Kurt had finished reacquainting himself with his knee caps, he made to enter the buttock's stretch, Puck pulling away to allow him to assume the position with his back now straight and his right leg stretched across his body. By now, the jock was careful not to misplace his hands and only touch Kurt with permission, yet it was hard to do. The contact for him was like a catalyst, converting all his recent residual ferocity from the past week into behavior much improved. He now felt calmer and more at ease with Kurt, such as the boy was in his tranquil state, yet as Kurt now signaled for him with the stroke of his leg to rest his hand on his crossed thigh to keep it down, Puck's composure ruptured with nerves, good nerves, pleasant nerves.

As soon as Kurt felt the heat of a warm hand land on the side of his thigh, he couldn't help but let out a sigh that revealed far much more of his growing contentment that he'd thought was appropriate. Yet it was only followed by an even greater sigh, this one open mouthed, when at the moment he felt those thick fingers squeezing into his muscles with such ease, as if molding soft malleable putty with heated flesh. These fingers were working from the various origins and insertions of his thigh as if they knew what they were doing, knew exactly what to feel for with a strong thumb leading the way, and due to Kurt's leg position, it made it even easier to access the underside, leaving no single stretch of his thigh left untouched.

"That feels nice..." murmured Kurt, his voice nothing but breath as Puck's second hand landed on his thigh, ten fingers now loosening him up to a point of full repose. The circular motions of both hands had him actually feeling the blood in his legs flowing faster, rushing through and feeding his muscles, now kneading him, the tightness increasing in the fingers as they descended to the back of his knee that had Kurt now moaning, but he wasn't ashamed. It was too amazing not to moan.

"You okay, Kurt? Is the pressure working for you?"

"... it feels great, Puck. Where... did you pick this up?"

"During our, you know, lessons. You used to do the same thing on my upper body."

"Oh, well... you learn real fast... and you do it good too."

"Thanks... you want to, um, change positions?" Suggested Puck, leaning closer to Kurt's ear as the boy hummed in thought. On the one hand, whilst he'd now exhausted the buttock's stretch, if he were to move, then his massage would end, and those magic fingers would leave the surface of his thigh. Then again, if he were to enter the hamstring stretch - which many of his fellow classmates had entered - then attention to another part of his body could be assigned. It was a good idea.

"Alright," murmured Kurt sleepily, as he rolled over onto his back, lifted his leg up high and groaned at the feeling of a body that just did not want to move. The muscles in his thigh had been loosened to such an extent that the therapeutic qualities that had arisen from the massage had spread all over his body, a great wave of requiescence rendering it rather floppy and slack, as if he were tranquillized with a drug, and leaving him now as nothing but porcelain Play-Doh in Puck's large hands.

"How do you want me, Kurt?" Asked Puck unsurely, Kurt glancing at him through his sedated like state before instructing him to firstly return to his rear, the boy resting his risen leg up against Puck's firm chest with the back of his knee coming to rest on the jock's shoulder. Kurt then asked for him to lean forward at a constant yet gradual pace, bringing the leg further towards him below thereby stretching out the hamstrings at the back of the thigh and increasing the extension of the hip.

"That's it, slowly, take it slow," muttered Kurt, lowering his head back down to the ground as he closed his eyes, missing what the affect this simple order had on Puck, the connotation of sex, entering, fully sheathed. The jock could feel the heated juices rushing down south like a river gushing into a churning hot spring. That was it. He couldn't help it. He was hard, and he only hoped Kurt wouldn't take notice of the heated phallus shaped form now pushing against the underside of his thigh.

"Am I doing alright, Kurt? Tell me when to stop okay," murmured Puck with a simple nod answering him back, reassuring him the speed was good, the pressure was good, everything was good, including the large hand that was now resting on the boy's stomach, rubbing it as if after a satisfying meal or learning of life growing inside. There it stayed until with a sudden move of impulse, it slithered under the Cheerio top to rest on bare skin underneath, Kurt's gasping, his eyes widening.

"Oh... oh, o-oh," breathed Kurt, his mouth agape with his lips forming a perfect O as Puck's fingers danced across his navel, stroking the ever so very fine pale fuzz before applying light pressure on the boy's abdominals, pinpointing again every origin and insertion in the muscle just with the feel of his hand, that to Kurt, felt like a hot water bottle traveling across his flesh, leaving behind a ticklish trail that had him smiling, giggling, looking up at the tender smile of his muscled masseur. "... hi."

"Hey..." chuckled Puck, his hand on Kurt's stomach stilling, there to transmit its heat right into the ivory skin underneath, getting hotter and hotter to the point where Kurt felt like he was burning up, beads of sweat now appearing on his brow, for Puck was hot. Literally. The jock's chest was hot, his erection (which Kurt had indeed felt) was hot, he was just hot everywhere and Kurt could only inhale cool air as Puck's rumbling chest ceased to chuckle, now asking, "How you doing?"

"I'm doing good," breathed Kurt, his attention now turning to his raised leg, which had since reached an angle of around one hundred and sixty degrees, Puck having pushed all this time so that now, the jock was leaning over him, their faces thirty centimeters apart. From afar, their position must have resembled that of the Splitting Bamboo, the Karma Sutra position, yet even if anyone looked their way, pointed and laughed, Puck didn't appear to care, for all his attention was solely on Kurt.

"Good... because, um, I've been meaning to talk to you about something," began Puck as Kurt's smile freshly born from his giggles earlier on now ceased to shine as his heart dropped, watching with growing fear as premonitions overruled his mind. He knew that look, those dilated hazel eyes come about from waves of oxytocin, those insatiable hormones, so insatiable. It was as if the jock had eyes of a mythological creature, one that was similarly struck by the face of such nymph like beauty.

"What? Now? About wha-?"

"Us... Kurt. I want to talk about us."

"Us?"

"Yeah... Kurt, I can't keep doing this. I can't keep this up."

"Puck please, not here," pleaded Kurt, desperation now seeping into his voice as he glanced to his left to see everyone else in the class fully engrossed in Yoga. They appeared so much further away than before, the familiar feeling of exclusion from the herd now having him wish he'd not placed himself at the back, for he was again the straggler, yet now caught and pinned down to the ground, left to the mercy of animal instinct or in his case, human nature. Oh how it would never change.

"Kurt, listen to me, I can't do this anymore. You know what I'm talking about," began Puck. "Even though I sang for you and I even though I said sorry, I know you still hold a grudge for what I've done to you, Kurt, what I've called you. I see it in your eyes, even though we said we're 'friends', I always see it and it kills me, it's punishing me and I can't go on like this. I only hope you can forgive me 'cos... you have to forgive me... you... have to forgive me. You have to forgive me, Kurt... please..."

"Oh..." muttered Kurt, speech now stunted in the wake of Puck's repeatedly phrased chorus. Forgiveness. He'd not at all anticipated this. He had already concluded with enough proof ridden justification that only time would tell if forgiveness would have blessed Puck with its gloved hand on his shoulder, since Kurt could never forget. Yet maybe lack of forgiveness only fed the internalized resentment he had for the jock, thereby rejecting him when too close, pushing him away, 'punishing' him.

"Please Kurt... can't you see I need this?" Begged Puck, Kurt now growing uncomfortable from the strain his leg was under. To him, it felt as though each time the jock implored for forgiveness, his leg would stretch even further, being pushed, just like each plea that resounded in their small space pushed him to free Puck from his guilt. It was no longer doing him any good to his body and he needed to say so, but Puck was talking. Words, voice, it was his. The age of silent contact was now over.

"Is this what you've wanted all this time? My forgivenes-oh!" A sharp intake of breath fell down his pale throat as Puck put down his raised leg, moved his own muscular thighs forward, pushed apart Kurt's and slotted himself into missionary, like a puzzle piece, a large one. Another breathy 'oh!' sounded from Kurt's puckered lips as he felt the jock's erection caressing his crotch, the heat down below, like two belly pools of heat, meeting as Puck took his upper body weight on his strong arms.

"Don't play with me, Kurt. You know what I want, you know there's more," insisted Puck firmly, looking down at Kurt like a teacher waiting for a child who knew the answer, to answer, for he knew the boy knew what it is he was talking about. He was just in denial, rejecting it, lack of forgiveness leading it all on. That's why it was so important that this needed to be addressed. "All those moments we've had together, couldn't you see how I looked at you Kurt, what you do to me?"

"Yes... it's all I've ever seen."

"And you're all I think about, Kurt. I think of you all the time."

"Ever since-"

"You've  _never_  left my mind since the first day I saw you."

"I know... I saw that too," muttered Kurt, lowering his sight to Puck's chest, his eyes too weak to continue as subjects to those hovering above, yet they flicked back up on a soft ' _o-oh... oh_ ,' as the jock pressed his belly even further into his, like a reward, thanking him for not denying the truth, for not ignoring how Puck was with him now, only to be followed by rocking, those burly thighs now ever so slightly rocking his legs like a baby's swaying crib, a sweet cooing like breath escaping.

At this coo, this lamb like coo, one that had Puck's nurturing, protective spirit looking down upon Kurt with a supple smile, his heart burned with feeling. It was as if the fair boy were vulnerability itself, formed from a creamy paste, well molded into a shape and character that no one here understood, a feared enigma, unplaced. Kurt's sexuality had been so well integrated within him that it filled his core to the brim. He was gay, something that was more exotic than accounted for, yet not appreciated by those around, therefore rendering him even more of a treasure in Puck's eyes, a luxury of a person, a delicacy that had pheromones wafting up to intoxicate him almost into a point of pleasant slumber, to lie dormant on Kurt's bust.

Lowering his face further down, angling it, before hovering his lips over those that shamed the rose, Puck remained a breath distance away. His torso had followed suit, now lightly grazing Kurt's own and his arms had bent at the elbow with his forearms now resting either side of the fair boy's face, which had since turned to the side, those blue eyes averted to the left and exposing a full cheek that flushed down shades of pink from every breath that coated it's skin, yet Puck wished not for this aversion in sight. He wanted those eyes gracing him instead of worrying that they might be caught. He needed Kurt with him on this, so as he calmed his breathing - one that had resembled miniature pants of post coitus - Puck pressed on.

"Don't be afraid to look at me, Kurt," he whispered, his voice now hoarse.  _Please, don't be_   _afraid,_ echoed his thoughts in a greater pang of desperation. Yet as he waited, nothing came. Nothing. No look was shared, no sympathy on his heart was even bestowed upon him, and with such despondency issued the first crack on his heart, as if a freezing gust of wind had blown over it to leave it icebound with no chance of thawing, but only to crack, break. Never in his life had Puck felt this cold.

"Puck..." whispered Kurt quietly, Puck's heart now jutting to a halt as the fair boy slowly rolled his head back to face him, his eyes following suit. He could feel Kurt's legs wrapping themselves around his strong hips as if he too needed support. Those little hands were tightening on his biceps, up on broad shoulders and as Puck eyed those lips that trembled ever so subtly, the raw red skin moving like a star in its own right against the porcelain sea, he muscled a smile. He could breathe again.

"I really, really like you Kurt. I think you're great and... Fuck it; I'm not stopping myself anymore. I'm doing this." With a final intake of breath that shuddered with the vibration of his nerves, Puck's lips fell onto Kurt's with a soft cushion like landing. There he made love to the boy's mouth, supple and soft, tongue enriched, just like how Kurt had taught him. A kiss they had learned together, one that belonged to both of them and could not stray. A kiss they'd shared once before in this very room, yet now, there was no painful pinch like grip, no sore intrusion and no pushing away. Just a kiss between a boy who had just announced his deep fathomless feelings and his crush whose mind was racing with awe, trepidation but above all...  _desire_...

_And if you really love me I'll never leave you lonely_   
_Boy you could be my only 'cause you got the key_   
_Tonight until forever, as long as we're together_   
_We'll make it through wherever, you got the key to you my heart..._


	19. Like Mother, Like Son

It was painting day. The walls of Kurt's bathroom was undergoing a significant color change following the recent installment of his new Playtime walk-in shower. It's minimalist design - what with its frameless pared down style - brought with it a cool elegance as well the feeling of space and openness, a perfect addition to any cutting edge bathroom of the day, and a great improvement from its predecessor. Yet despite this bathroom having been constructed with a trained modern eye, the current paint shade on the walls, 'Florentine Peach' - a name that was a put off in itself - was one that Kurt now realized did not compliment the room, one that did only aged it and one that was frankly too feminine for him, for even he had a limit.

All movable items, protrusions and hardware on the walls like oil paint drips and electrical outlets had been removed, the room had been thoroughly dusted and a drop cloth had been deployed on the ground to make sure all areas in the danger zone had been completely covered. In terms of the color scheme, Kurt had wished only for shades to dominate, with only a hint of color generously added. He'd gone to Sheets-N-Things - recalling how extensive their paint department had been - and after much deliberation with the swatches, the artist in his mind experiencing a Sophie's Choice of its own; he'd bought large tubs of Battleship Gray, Snow White and Pistachio paints, the ammo for his drastic redecoration project fully loaded.

Now making his way into his bathroom after having changed into a plain white tee shirt, denim dungarees and plimsolls - all items that in Kurt's opinion had not only aged, but had 'gone bad' after they'd come to surpass their 'fashion expiry date', rendering them ultimately the perfect apparel for household work - he arranged the vast array of brushes and rollers and got to work pouring the first tub into the paint tray. His father - who was here to lend him a helping hand, as well as supervise him less anything happen, like if he were to accidentally dunk his foot into one of the tubs or suffer some other malfunction - followed suit on his own stretch of wall, dipping his roller into his paint tray with gusto and laying on the first of two coats.

For Kurt, painting was a chance to get his creative fingers working and although he didn't favor it as much as drawing - what with the messiness factor proving somewhat discouraging - the enjoyment of depositing mastic composition onto a concrete canvas whilst simultaneously concealing the last lingering traces that was the unfortunate shade of 'Florentine Peach', was rather stimulating. Apparently, his nana had had it in her plans to do the same thing, to repaint the whole room with a more agreeable color, but she'd always put it off with the fear that she'd fall and splatter the walls with her liver spots like one hundred and one Dalmatians. Still, Kurt would have liked to have had her here with him and Burt. It would have been great.

As it was, Kurt was alone with his father, painting. If he wished to say anything to Burt, he could, for now was a time as good as any, and a whole range of topics could be discussed. From how his school life was going, as well as how his extra circular activities like Glee and the Cheerios were coming along, to a deep kiss that his once ex-bully had laid upon him in gym class yesterday afternoon following an emotional timeline of events that sounded only as an unfavorable tune to a parent such as his father, and even though Kurt wished to tell him, perhaps the latter wasn't an ideal conversation for now, what with them painting as well as Burt's possible reaction of either concern or impassioned indignation if he let the man in on everything.

However, even if Kurt daren't mention it aloud, it didn't prevent him from thinking about it. All he'd ever thought of was that kiss. That and when he'd been selecting his paints at Sheets-N-Things this morning, he'd encountered the jock himself. Puck had caught sight of him upon entrance and had snuck up to hug him from behind, as if spooning him vertically with a sensual 'hello baby' following soon after from smirking lips. Kurt, who'd nearly jumped out of his own skin, had hardly spoken two words in return. He'd stood there unsure of what to do or say as the jock had confirmed he'd meant every word in their last gym class, how he too couldn't bring himself to stop thinking of that 'hot ass' kiss and what it meant for them now, for 'us'.

In truth, Kurt didn't know what it meant for them. The status of their relationship had certainly changed with Puck's confession, but he had yet to learn the extent of these changes. Had he to reciprocate the jock's affections, had he to date him, even give himself to him. Since Puck had made the first move, the ball was now in Kurt's court, obliging him to answer, yet he didn't know what to say. He was unsure of how he felt for the jock and he'd been put on the spot back in Sheets-N-Things when Puck had told him to stay put whilst he found someone to cover his shift so they could talk about 'us', yet Kurt had done no such thing. He'd bought his paints and had got the hell out of there. He wasn't ready to do any talking as of yet.

What was he thinking? Of course he was ready to talk about it, just not yet with Puck. He wished for a third party opinion on how a supposed straight, steadfastly single sex machine could transcend the sexual orientation barriers into homosexuality. He needed to know whether entering into anything with the jock was a wise idea. A part of him had him thinking it wasn't, since he firstly didn't know of Puck's sexuality and secondly, despite the jock's passionate claims, Kurt believed he had yet to spend more time by himself for reflection, to be sure of what and whom he wanted. Puck couldn't afford to be blind with desire, for none of this was not to be taken lightly. He had to be made aware of the implications of being gay at McKinley.

"Kurt? Son, are you alright?" Came the voice of his father as Kurt realized the sigh he'd unconscionably let forth just now from his thoughts had been louder than he'd intended. He also realized he'd been painting the same section of wall for the past few minutes, and as he turned around to see Burt eying him with concern, all he could muster in response was a breviloquent nod before returning to paint with such low energy that his father was began to fear he'd drop the brush.

"I'm fine, dad."

"Are you sure. You haven't changed your mind with the colors have you?"

"No, it's not that. They're fine."

"Except you?"

"No, I'm fine too. I just have a lot on my mind, that's all," answered Kurt, yet despite his back to his father, he could still feel Burt's eyes on the back of his head, watching him, eying how poorly he was painting with uneven brush strokes and allowing paint drips to trickle on down the wall and dry, until he heard a 'clunk', the sound of a roller being deposited. His father soon strode over to him; set aside his own roller caked in unused paint and sat him down on the ground before joining him.

"Tell me all about it," encouraged Burt, as his eyes flicked on back to where Kurt had been working on. He had to admit, his son had produced better work, that was for sure. Painting as a whole was an activity one had to dedicate full attention to, if not, results would only be poor, and despite it having been Kurt's idea to paint his bathroom themselves instead of hiring professionals to do it for five hundred dollars, he didn't want his son to regret a frugal decision that Burt did appreciate.

"Its nothing, I mean, nothing's the matter, it's just ..." sighed Kurt tiredly, fiddling with the cloth underneath as he debated how he was going to cram several weeks worth of events into one sitting. "Okay, when I first came to McKinley, I thought it was going to be fairly straightforward, like it had been back in Columbus, but as you know I auditioned for glee club and I got in, I was made a Cheerio soon after and what with school itself, it has been quite demanding on me, but I stuck with it."

"And I'm glad you did. McKinley seems to be working out for you very well," smiled Burt broadly, rubbing Kurt's shoulder encouragingly as his son answered with a small smile. The man could recall the times Kurt had surprised him with recounts of his adventures at school, including having returned home one day in a male cheerleader's uniform. He'd also since invited many of his friends round - rather a novelty for Kurt - including those two beautiful blondes who'd really grown fond of him.

"Yes, McKinley has offered me a lot, but um... how to say this... I think they've given me too much," began Kurt, his speech spurred on by the frown that had now appeared on his father's brow. "Back at Columbus High, I didn't have anything to do with high school drama, you know, I kept to myself and I was okay with that, but now, I have so much here that I don't know what to do with it. I'm telling you, there's enough teen angst in that place to make a soap opera. It's exhausting."

"Is all this 'drama' your own or someone else's?" Asked Burt, standing up to fetch them both cans of coke he'd set aside on the counter before handing one over to Kurt who accepted it graciously. In truth, all this 'drama' was his own, but only shared with someone else and not with the rest of the school like he'd made it out to sound. However, the nature of it was unlike most and it was due to this that made it so much harder to recount to Burt his longest hypnagogic school adventure.

"Let's just say that I'm involved in the drama, but there's nothing to worry about, it's nothing bad, it's just getting to me is all," sighed Kurt once again, opening his coke and just sitting there listening to the fizz of breaking bubbles. "Dad, when you were in high school, did you have to go through all this? The drama? I mean, were there moments that were so surreal to you that it made you think you were genuinely living the life of a fictional cliché character from some bad high school movie?"

"I guess. I would have been the stereotypical jock because... well because I was one," chuckled Burt, Kurt nodding knowingly as he was reminded of what a roughien his old man had been at school. Quite the sportsman, quite the womanizer and quite the jerk who'd run the school with a powerful iron fist. "But you know it depends on your definition of surreal, son. For me, it would have been getting a B or a C on a paper or... oh! When your mom caught me a break and said she'd go out with me."

"And I know what a favor she did you there," laughed Kurt as Burt light heatedly shoved him with his shoulder, dislodging the boy's balance and sending droplets of coke to spill from his can. Since childhood, the story of how his parents had fallen in love had been his favorite fairytale growing up. It had been one that hadn't relied on princes and princesses, fire breathing dragons or brave knights in shining armor, for it had happened for real, and that's what had made it so special in Kurt's eyes.

The story had always begun with 'once a upon a time' with the introduction of the characters, Burt and Elizabeth. Burt, when he'd been in high school, had been one of the star players on the football team. He'd been young, popular and handsome, but had been cursed with a foul attitude that had struck fear in the hearts of his peers, rendering him an all round jerk. Elizabeth meanwhile, or 'Pretty Lizzie' has she had been nicknamed by her friends, had been the average high school girl. Bright, beautiful and good, she'd been complimented for her English Rose coloring and lady-like sense of decorum, and whilst she hadn't been a cheerleader, or as popular as some of her more plastic counterparts, she'd lived her high school life well.

At the time when they'd first met, Burt had been in a relationship with a girl named Cindy. Whether he'd had feelings for her, Kurt didn't know, but he went with no, considering their relationship had most likely been carnal. All he knew was that the first time his father had laid eyes on Elizabeth across the gym at a pep rally, he'd been smitten. It hadn't long before he'd begun to pursue her relentlessly, bombarding her with a tango of the carnal repartée, the erotic to and fro, all consisting of crude pick lines and all said whilst staring at her 'doable' ass saying, 'Ooh, it must be jelly 'cause jam don't shake like that.' It was a part of the story that had always had Burt cringing in embarrassment and Kurt always laughing in a frenzy of hysterics.

Elizabeth, naturally, had not been impressed. She'd originally known of Burt's vile character long before they'd first met, thanks to an unrefined reputation that had preceded him, yet she hadn't wished to pass judgement until they'd been introduced. When they had however, she'd been sorely disappointed. She'd cited Burt as a 'rude', 'uncouth' and 'presumptuous' jerk, not to mention a 'sexist pig' when he'd attempt to flirt with her. Any dates he'd asked her on had been firmly rejected and even if she were to consider him as a suitor, she'd never do it whilst he had a girlfriend, stating infidelity as immoral and wrong. An hour later, Cindy had been dumped, yet Burt had still been no closer to dating his Pretty Lizzie.

The weeks had gone by and Burt hadn't known what to do. His ego had been heavily bruised by his twenty fifth rejection yet his attraction to Elizabeth had only grown. By this point, knowing he'd been coming on too strong, he'd backed off, and had instead resorted to watch her and observe her from afar. From doing this, he'd learned so much, from her interests in the works of Jane Austen and George Elliot, to equestrianism and fashion, as well as subtle features of her beauty he'd never noticed before, features he'd written down soon after in love notes that he'd left in her locker every day. He'd risked creeping her out but she'd been flattered by his attempts and so for the last time, he'd asked her out, and for the first time, she'd said 'yes'.

"Dad, what you did was so romantic," smiled Kurt, recalling when Elizabeth had shown him the notes Burt had given her back in high school. Since then, she'd kept every single one in an ivory jewellery casket, alongside a movie stub from their first date, an eggshell the first time he'd made her breakfast in bed, and a photo strip taken inside an amusement park photo booth the first time they'd been together. "But what exactly was it that mom had for you to have gone after her for so long?"

"She was the ideal girl Kurt, and luckily for me not many of the other guys saw that," answered Burt as Kurt listened intently. "They all went for the 'flesh' girls, you know the type, but your mom wasn't like that. I remember I wrote in one of my love notes that to me she was the milk of human kindness, the light in my dark world, that without her life was a desert, a howling wilderness. No bimbo had ever made me feel that way. She was just incomparable, so innocent, and so beautiful."

"She used to say the same thing about me," muttered Kurt. He recalled when his mother had bathed him when little, how the water had splashed nosily into the antique claw footed tub and how the wintergreen scented rippling water had reflected his glassy blue eyes and rosebud mouth like a mirror. 'Beautiful' he was, always 'beautiful', never 'handsome'. Kurt had forever wondered why. He'd been like a doll to her, a true limited edition for he was the only one of his kind, and she had had him.

"Well you do take after her, Kurt. Everyone thought so," smiled Burt, taking a large sip from his can as Kurt remained stuck in the thought of his childhood baths, how they had always been such sensually drawn out affairs. Elizabeth had always joined him, had seated herself facing him, knees opened as if to embrace amidst the water that had surged in choppy waves overflowing the rim. There she'd washed him of his dirt, as if making him  _pure_  again, as if restoring his  _beauty_ every time.

"What if..." murmured Kurt quietly, the bathtub reflection in his thoughts now shifting into a new one, as if the lapping waves on the surface had turned into a foreseeing looking glass. 'What do you see, Kurt?' asked Elizabeth smiling. 'Who do you see?" His parents as young teens in love, almost sepia toned, that with the swirl of his mother's finger, now morphed into two new sets of figures, figures of the future. Two teen boys - one fair, the other, handsome, both of them together, in love.

"What if what... Kurt?" Encouraged Burt, watching as his son raised unfocused eyes to him, orbs even glassier, thick with a vision. The two figures he saw before him in the water were similar to his parents, one an arrogant jock, the other, him. Kurt looked back at his mother. She'd poured her own love story into the tub so that it might grace another. 'Do what you want with it, Kurt,' she said, stroking his glistening hair, 'it's yours now', and with that, she was gone, the water, the figures, gone.

The time had come to talk of the mohawked figure, but Kurt hesitated and it wasn't because he was afraid his father would be uncomfortable hearing him talking about another boy. Ever since he'd come out to Burt at age thirteen, the man had been nothing but supportive and a lot more open minded for an ex-jock than Kurt had originally pegged him for. If he had a crush on a guy or a male celebrity - both of which rarely ever happened - there would be no fear of letting his father know, just the rounds of 'he wouldn't be good enough for you. You deserve better'. Burt wished him to have the best. He'd accepted the baby boy he and his wife had brought into the world at first sight, for Kurt had been a true porcelain wonder in their eyes.

"What if I've taken after her in yet another way," began Kurt quietly. "See, there's a boy at school who likes me. His name is Noah, but everyone calls him 'Puck'. I don't know why, but anyway. He's the running back on the football team, so a jock in other words. He's very masculine, good looking, and an all round classic American kind of a guy, except he's Jewish, but you know the type. He's bit of a ladies' man and everyone thinks he's straight, but he's not been that straight around me."

"What do you mean he's not been 'straight' around you?"

"Well he's flirted with me and um... well he's kissed me several times but-"

"He's been kissing you? How long has this been all going on for?"

"It's a recent development... kind of, but I didn't start it. It's all him. I haven't been returning his affections all that much."

"And you've been smart not to do so," replied Burt, his voice clipped and sharp, putting down his can and turning to face his son with a severe expression, very serious. "Listen Kurt, I want you to stay well away from that boy. I don't like the sound of him. High school is a critical time in a kid's life and the last thing you need is to have your heart broken by a possible closet case. You hear that? I'm not going to have my only son be some sexual experiment to some punk ass jock like some lab rat."

"Dad, it's not like that," assured Kurt, yet his father had yet to be convinced. The pale boy felt desperate to quote the collection of the things Puck had said to him in the past, what he'd uttered in their last gym class, the beautiful things, words similar to his father's love notes. How could such beautiful evidence not prove something? Yet his father remained very much displeased. Kurt was too greater gem to be gnawed like a piece of new meat only to be discarded. He wouldn't let it happen.

"Kurt, it's rarely any other way," replied Burt. "Jocks value popularity like currency. The higher your rank, the more influence you have, you know, the more untouchable you are, and most of them fall victim to the power they earn from such a status. This 'Puck' boy seems to have it all, and he must know that if he brings up whatever is going on with you two to attention, he risks losing it all. I'm sorry, I hate being right about this, but trust me son, I know what I'm talking about. Forget about him."

"But dad, he's the one pursuing me. Like I said, it's all him," persisted Kurt, putting his own can down onto the rumpled cloth with a tone of insistence. "I don't think he cares all that much if anyone sees how he is with me. I mean, he's kissed me twice in gym class with everyone else around and he's not been afraid to stare me down even if there's been a risk of anyone catching him doing it, and the crazy thing is, I'm the one afraid he'll get caught. I'm the gay one, and I'm the one afraid."

"Because you care about him... don't you."

"I don't know... I didn't at first; he was a dick in the beginning."

"They always are. I was too. Luckily, for me, I had your mom. She made me see my ways before I destroyed myself."

"So what are you saying, dad? That I ought to make Puck 'see his ways' and save him?"

"No, you're not going to do anything," replied Burt, a small chuckle rumbling through his chest only to escape through grinning lips. Yet Kurt responded with only a frown crossing his lowered brow. What was his father getting at? "The next time you see your little friend, let him know that if he wants you, then he's going to have to work to get you, and if he's into you like you say he is, then he won't have a problem with doing so. Bottom line is, you're worth it Kurt, just like your mom was."

"So you're suggesting Puck do what you did for mom, but for me?" Asked Kurt as Burt nodded. The man didn't mean for this 'Puck' boy to follow exactly in his footsteps, to do exactly what he'd done, he was just enforcing an old principle that seemed to have been lost on this generation of youth. Elizabeth had been onto something in high school. She'd valued romance. She'd made Burt work for her affections with those love notes, so that by the end, she know his feelings had been true.

For Kurt, he'd always compared his mother's little game - as he had thought of it - to the one enforced by one of her role models, Anne Boleyn. Even though the late queen had been charged with adultery and incest with the last thing she'd felt being the blade from the Sword of Calais, Anne had since become a symbol of sixteenth century female empowerment, sexuality and seduction. Just the way she had influenced Henry VIII, the tyrant king, into divorcing Katherine of Aragon, breaking off from the Pope, becoming the head of the Catholic Church in England, marrying her and crowning her queen consort, well, that had been some powerful seduction, one that had had Burt at his future wife's feet, begging for her love.

"One thing to remember, Kurt, is that no matter how confident this boy of yours is, do not for a second lose control over him, because that's what you have. You have the control," stressed Burt, accenting every word with a pointed finger to his chest. "You're his weakness and that makes him vulnerable, but that doesn't mean you can't respect him. He will have his pride, so I don't want you playing with his feelings or leading him on with false hope only to say you're not interested in him, okay?"

"Alright..." murmured Kurt, his eyes heavy with a frown as his sight skated over the creases of the cloth on the ground, as if like pure white sand on the beach of a remote Pacific island. He was sure not going to 'play' with Puck's feelings. He'd already manipulated one of his friends with disastrous consequences and he was certainly not going to repeat such actions, but what was Kurt going to make Puck do? How was he going to make him work for his affections? The whole thing sounded silly.

"I know if your mom had led me on, I would have been crushed," continued Burt, shaking his head. "She might as well have ripped every single love note I ever wrote for her right in front of me if she had, but she didn't. She wielded her power in a benevolent manner and I want you to do the same, all right son. If you like this boy in return, be sure to make him know somehow. It'll encourage him. It's what Lizzie did with me and believe me, your mom knew exactly what she was doing."

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

_And I want to tell you you're gorgeous and hug you when you're anxious_   
_and hold you when your hurt and want you when I smell you and offend you when I touch you_   
_and whimper when I'm next to you and whimper when I'm not and dribble on your body_   
_and smother you in the night and get cold when you take the blanket and hot when you don't..._

It was Monday afternoon and American Literature class was in session with a stream of speeches read out from creased papers that crackled from under slightly shaking fingertips. Kurt, who'd seated himself in the middle of class, his designated spot with a wooden desk mildly organized, was listening to all these so-called 'speeches' and trying to pinpoint their exact emotions. The assignment had been to write a short prose based on the style of a writer one had selected with an additional chosen mental state that would act as a subject to said prose. It had been fairly straight forward yet the range of emotions that been covered were limited - dispirited, gloomy with touches of heartbreak - all read in a delirious like manner of speech.

Kurt's own speech had been about him and his mother. After his discussion the other day with Burt, as well as the memories of his childhood baths, he'd been inspired, yet he'd hidden them both behind characters with his mother having been 'The Girl' and Kurt having been 'The Doll', a naked male doll with rubbery-smooth skin, blue eyes and a rose-bud mouth. The Girl had played with it, her eyes widened as if in mimicry and she'd predicted it's future in the cloudy bathwater, as if like a physic, yet the physic had fallen asleep. The water had sunk past her mouth, her nose, sudden thrashing. Drowned. Lived on by The Doll floating on the wavy surface broken by bubbles, left to live out its future by the word of its owner, 'The Drowned Girl'.

_... and massage your neck and kiss your feet and hold your hand and keep you in bed when you have to go_   
_and cry like a baby when you finally do and hear your voice in my ear and feel your skin on my skin_   
_and want you in the morning but let you sleep for a while and kiss your back and stroke your skin_   
_and tell you how much I love your hair, your eyes, your lips, your neck, your nipples, your ass…_

Up before the class was Puck, heavy with the theme of love, one that craved love, one that was so deeply in love there was no doubt he was talking about, well, love. He'd learned his speech off by heart, with no hesitations breaking the flow and his left hand had splayed itself to his chest, fingers digging deep into his tee, scrunching it above a beating muscle that was very much alive. There it thumped to each word that was said, alongside a mouth that let them forth with such sensuality, it rendered them all the more poignant. He was making love to each syllable, fucking them gently with his tongue, legato and steady, taking his time, for he was in no rush. The jock wished for this to last, like sex, he wished for it to last and to last.

Puck was owning the room. Everything in it belonged to him and what he was saying was no mere speech. To many it felt more important than that. It was as if he were on a stage, a love monologue lying atop his lips. His audience built up of his peers had their eyes wide for him. Boys were exchanging looks amongst themselves as if they couldn't believe  _the_  Noah Puckerman was producing romance of such a caliber, whilst the girls had been reduced to nothing but batting eyelashes, pouting lips and bodies that swayed assets in his direction, praying 'come fuck me', 'fuck me please' for all of them had made up this orgy of reactions, a pile up of stares, a clustered bed of emotions, one Kurt now found himself caught in between.

_... and sit on the steps smoking till you come home and worry when you're late and be amazed when you're early_   
_and be sorry when I'm wrong and be happy when you forgive me and look at your photos_   
_and wish I'd known you forever and hear your voice in my ear and feel your skin on my skin_   
_and get scared when you're angry and your eye has gone red and the other eye blue…_

However, the most disconcerting feature of this speech that had Kurt squirming in his seat as if he were sitting on a leather couch, the material sticking to his bare ass on a hot day, was that from the moment he'd introduced the name of his speech ,'LOVE', out to the class to the very sentence he was saying, the jock had looked at no one else but Kurt. A love speech for Kurt, a serenade of original prose just for Kurt, that hand gripped to his chest just for Kurt. Similarly to the fair boy's speech presented earlier, Puck had hidden the true identity of who he'd been referring to all this time. The one he envisioned in his bed and the one he envisioned with skin on his skin. For Kurt, it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done to him.

This was, however, something Kurt would have preferred to have been done in private. He was flattered that this admittedly beautiful speech was dedicated to him - not that anyone seemed to notice - but he wasn't comfortable with what Puck was doing. What if somebody eventually caught on? What would happen then? The jock refused to relent eye contact with him, even if the Cheerio at the front had stuck her foot out to caress his shin, or even if her neighbor lowered her chest revealing her bosom filled cleavage, their pendulous appearance inviting him for a look, he was not losing sight of Kurt, for those baby blue eyes were his sole eye candy, glasz jewels he desired above all else, a boy he desired for himself, and for himself alone.

_... and try to get closer to you because it's a beautiful learning to know you and make love with you at three in the morning_   
_and somehow, somehow, somehow communicate some of the overwhelming_   
_undying, overpowering unconditional, all encompassing, heart enriching_   
_mind expanding, ongoing, never ending love I have for you._

Love? Alright, this speech had gone on long enough, it had to stop, though Kurt needn't have waited long, for it had stopped. Puck had finished his speech, drawing the last few words out as if his heart was his own music conductor, the voice held for several semiquaver beats before dissipating into an air decorated with feminine sighs. Then were was silence, then there was applause. Everyone's claps were so out of synch with each other, it accompanied the frenzied manner in which they were doing it, their crazy faces as if each and every one of them were on drugs. The girls were letting out wolf whistles with their smiles ripping their cheeks and their teacher, Ms. Bowling, had approached the jock of the hour with a 'very well done'.

Kurt's mind was in a sense of hysteria. He couldn't handle this raving class, as if resembling a crowd from a rock concert. He had to get out, and he made to, yet by accidentally bumping his thigh against his desk leg, tremors on the surface lead his stationary to land on the floor, their clattering screams drowned out from the shriek that was the wolf whistle. Still ignoring it all, he made it out of the classroom, only to lean on the lockers outside the door. The applause was dying, he could hear it dying, before he heard nothing, yet he didn't feel like going back in there. Instead, he shifted down further rows of lockers, counting down until he was several comfortable meters away. Now he could close his eyes and not see hazel, no, not hazel.

"Hey," Came a voice to his left as Kurt's eyes fluttered open. His sense at the moment were not sharpened and his ears were neither pricked to pick up any other sound except those of his thoughts, yet he knew that voice. It had slept with him, had made love to him and as he shifted his head on cool somewhat copper smelling metal to see his mohawked 'lover', he sighed in fatigue. "You know I wish you'd stop bolting from me like this. I'm getting the feeling you don't like me all that much."

"I wouldn't have to bolt if you'd learn a little something called 'subtly'," replied Kurt, sarcasm enriching his retort, though this did not defer his serenader. Upon having caught sight of his fair boy making a runner amidst his own high-powered applause and the countless manicured hands that had stroked his arms with non-retractable claw like fingers, Puck had excused himself to go to the restroom, a bullshit excuse that had exploited the aroused look in their teacher's grey dilated eyes.

"So you know who I was talking about," smirked Puck, sauntering up to Kurt before leaning his shoulder against the locker, resting his right forearm against the metal high above the fair boy's head whilst his other hand came to sit on his hip. Swagger, there was no denying the jock had it by the ton, but Kurt was in no mood for such coquetry, as if he and Puck were flirting against a secluded wall whilst the party raved in the other room. He was still in deep discomfort. "So... did you like it?"

"I should fetch you a straight jacket, you've gone completely mad."

"That's your answer?"

"That's my answer to the creep who gets off on the risk of getting caught, yes."

"And yet I haven't been. It's all about doing it in the right place at the right time, baby."

"This isn't a game, Puck. You're putting yourself in a precarious position. Don't you see that all you have here at McKinley could have been shot to hell just now if anybody had caught on to who you were really talking to back in there?" Retorted Kurt in irritation. "Take it from me, I know what it's like at the bottom, so if you know what's good for you, you'll lay off alright. I'm just thinking of you, but again it wouldn't hurt you to grasp the magnitude of risk you're putting yourself through."

"Oh I'm grasping it alright. That's what makes it so  _hot_ ," breathed Puck seductively, Kurt's baby facial hairs, so fine, catching said breath so distinctively it was as if the boy could feel the miniscule droplets spritz his fair skin like a heated mist. He wanted to sigh in exasperation. He wanted to cry aloud, but he daren't help Puck's cause and attract even further risk their way. "And seeing you sitting there listening and looking at me as I read my speech out to you, God, that was  _hot_  too."

"No it wasn't. It was inappropriate and uncomfortable. You might as well have gone and told them about the kissing lessons we used to have or how you dry humped me on a stage," seethed Kurt angrily, his eyes darting down the hall before returning their ice like gaze on Puck. "Couldn't you have chosen someone else to write about? Like, I don't know, a girl that you slept with? Then at least all the things about loving their 'nipples' or 'ass' would be relevant. I don't know why you chose me."

"Okay Kurt, either you're acting clueless or you're fucking denser than I thought," replied Puck in frustration, Kurt bearing a pained wince as the jock threw his fist in the locker beside him with a 'clang!', its metal door rattling perilously on its hinges to such a degree the fair boy predicted a perishable dent, a deep scar. "After what happened in gym, how could I not have chosen you, Kurt? I thought I'd made my feelings pretty clear. I can't _fucking_  stop thinking about you, your body, that kiss..."

"Puck n- umph... Puck... uh... don't, please," protested Kurt as the jock launched his head forwards and captured his red lips, mouth open, tongue now inside, but breaking away by pale hands pressed to his sturdy chest. He went for another kiss, and another, down the neck, jaw always moving down soft flesh until push! He was stopped as Kurt's swollen lips made to speak amidst a flustered face. "Puck, this is exactly what I'm talking about. You can't kiss me here in the hall, someone could see."

"Fuck 'em. I want to kiss you."

"No Puck, you're not listening to m-."

"You have the softest lips..."

"Puck! I got what you meant from that kiss in gym. Don't."

"Then stop acting all coy and shit. You know why I wrote about you, you know why I read it to you, you know all of this," replied Puck, calming down from his thirst as he brought his chest into Kurt's. So very warm. "I know we didn't do any of the things I said in my speech, but I wrote it how I imagined it would be like to be with you, to, I don't know, melt when you smile and dissolve when you laugh or even... buy you a kitten I'd get jealous of because it would get more attention than me."

"Buy me a... you really thought of all these things that could happen if we were to be together?" Asked Kurt, now genuinely curious as Puck nodded, each nod a honest 'yes', and there were a lot of them. The speech entitled 'LOVE' had a certain craving to it, that had come about from starry-eyed daydreams and masturbatory fantasies, a personal log to what went on in Puck's head, what he did in his bed beyond his bedroom door, Kurt's name on a climaxing cry. "That's... a lot of things."

"Yeah... a lot," whispered Puck. In truth, it wasn't a lot. There had been much more. When it had come to writing the speech, he hadn't known where to start. He had had so much material that had consisted of pages upon pages of lists with crudely handwritten amorous activities sprawled on its surfaces that he'd had to undergo a deep decision-making process - which of them he'd use and which of them he'd awkwardly type up anyway, one day to show Kurt, one day when Kurt was his.

"A lot of things to say you secretly love me," murmured Kurt. When he'd heard the speech, it had been romantic, yes, but he hadn't thought much of it. They'd just been words tagged with the label of love that needn't have been true, just convincing to get the grade, all for show. Yet after what the jock had said just now, the same jock who liked him a great deal, Kurt began to freak. The love began look pretty genuine now. "You don't love me, do you? Puck. Please don't say you love me."

"I love you."

"Shut up."

"I love you, I love you, I love you!"

"Puck, stop it."

"What? Would it be such a bad thing if I was? I think it would suit me. I think I could show love a good time," smirked Puck as if love was the banquet he'd been warming his heart up all this time for, with Kurt under the central silver platter, fair flesh on show, the magnificent Pièce de résistance, not be devoured, but to be looked at, the sheer highlight of Puck's love. "Relax Kurt, I'm not there yet, but you've got to admit, that speech would have been a pretty good way to admit it, don't you think?"

"Yes... it would have been. Aside from reading it in front of the whole class and staring pointedly at me whilst you did, it was a very good speech. You should be very proud of yourself," complimented Kurt, patting Puck's arm encouragingly, rubbing it, stimulating it, as he had stimulated the pride like creature within the jock, the beaming jock, happy and tickled pink, now blushing. "I'm just envious of the future girlfriend you'll confess your love to. Boy is she going to have plenty to smile about."

"Girlfriend? What the hell are you talking about?" Asked Puck, pulling away with a look of perplexed anger. The haze of flirtatious chitchat and pleasantries had now given way to a new scene, one that was puissant enough to erase every single heart warming word of 'LOVE', as well as the progression the jock had made, a jock thinking,  _A girlfriend? A girl?!_   _Fuck that!_  Puck wanted no chick. He didn't want the heart of one or the trench like cut in between their legs. He wanted Kurt dammit!

"I didn't want to say this, but I'm going to have to," began Kurt, wishing to alleviate distance from the jock, but he was not being given it. All he was given was a seriously peeved off expression. "Puck, I think you've let yourself get into this too deep and I can't stand here and watch you do it anymore. Whilst I'm flattered for all the nice things you've said to me, you know, what with what happened in the gym and with that speech of yours, I think it would be best if we stop talking to each other."

"What the  _fuck_?! Why?!"

"Because nothing can happen."

"Why the  _fuck_  not?!"

"You're straight and-"

"You've got to be  _fucking_  kidding me!" Burst Puck as he grabbed hold of Kurt by his arms and pinned him to the lockers, the sound of straining metal echoing the painful pressure on the fair boy's spine. "Hummel, do you really think a straight dude would kiss you in the gym all those weeks ago? Do you think a straight dude would force you into kissing lessons? Really? Kissing lessons? I mean what the hell kind of crap is that? Why not go to some chick or do the research online like you did?"

"Um... well it's good to know you share the opinion that those lessons were a bit silly," cowered Kurt, his voice trailing away as if it were being crushed by Puck's glare, suffocating under the pressure with too little oxygen to keep it alive. He knew very well that by 'chick', Puck meant a down in the dumps girl, a loser, or a nobody, who wouldn't dare blab less her chicken fillet bra be stuffed with actual chicken, especially since he had stated that he didn't want to kiss anyone worth a damn.

"Those lessons weren't 'silly', Kurt. They might have been to you, but they weren't to me. They meant something to me," replied Puck defiantly. "Point is, you can call me 'straight' all you like, but I'm not going to let you stand there and think you're saving me by preaching me all that 'you're confused' bullshit, because I'm not, alright. It's not up to you to save me, Kurt. I know the risks of what I'm doing, but I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself, I know what I want, and _I_   _fucking want_   _you_."

"And it's not until now that I've never been more sure that you do," blushed Kurt, his eyes failing to meet Puck's but a smile playing on his lips all the same. That had been it. Those had been the words, the vessel for the jock's feelings, somehow wrapped in with his guts, tangled with the arteries of his living body. He truly now believed Puck  _wanted_  him, which effectively cut the chase short and rendered what his father had suggested - to have Puck work for his affections - redundant.

"Baby, how could you have had any doubts before?" Asked Puck chuckling, his fingers coming to stroke along a markedly pale cheek that flushed under its touch, as if he were raising all the blood to come surging to the surface upon command, a force that had him excited to trail his hands over more stretches of virginal white skin, naked. Where would he start off with on this continent of flesh? The neck, the nipples, the ass, the latter rosy pink as if it had been freshly spanked or freshly fucked...

"I don't know," muttered Kurt, his voice trailing off as lips gently crushed themselves against the side of his mouth, a body crushing against his, Puck, his crusher, crushing him gently. Yet with a sound of disturbance further down the hall, one that did not belong to their echoes, the fair boy paled as if he were now bloodless, with panic settling in as he was able to give the jock's smooching attentions nothing more than a faltering breath, stammering. "W-we'd better get back, come on."

"No, no, wait Kurt, please," begged Puck, his arms tightening around Kurt's retreating waist, awkwardly shuffling after him, pressing him along the row of lockers that squeaked in protest as they moved, though Kurt's attention wasn't on him. Blue eyes were searching in fear down the hall for the sound that had broken their lovebird like moment, a terrifying wakeup call of their pitilessly exposed environment. "Kurt, look at me. I need an answer. I can't let you get away without an answer."

"Answer wha-"

"Be with me."

"Oh... Puck, I-"

" _Please_... be with me, Kurt."

"Puck, you're so sweet. What you feel for me is so real, it's just so romantic and I never thought I'd find someone who would care for me as you do, but..." began Kurt, though to Puck it felt more like the end. This 'but' had been spoken softly, like every other word previously uttered, yet it had a different ring to it, connotations of darkness clouding the insides of the jock's belly with black mist, poisoning him. "... I... I don't think I like you enough in that way to give you all that you want. I'm sorry."

A staggering breath was the only response Kurt was given in return, with too greater interruptions in the exhale to be considered healthy, as if he might has well have had a hand on Puck's throat and squeezed it. He watched with guilt as the jock remained quiet and wordless. He felt those arms tighten around him but suppressed a cry as that hard body came to slump against his, chest on chest with his back to the locker, that had the same staggering breath hitting his neck hot and hard. He felt terrible. He didn't think he could feel more so. He'd left Puck crushed with a heart no longer beating like a hummingbird, but a dying one, struck down with one blow there to be held in a pale palm, its wings fluttering, dying.

 _'I know if your mom had led me on, I would have been crushed'._ His father's words came floating back to him, not all at once, but gradually. He hadn't led Puck on had he? He was not out to hurt Puck, to 'play with his feelings', to 'give him false hope', he was just being honest, yet such a policy was proving to redden the jock's eyes, as if he'd rubbed them raw with fists filled with sand. Kurt didn't think Puck could see out of them, as if he were blind. He wanted to say something. Maybe take back what he'd said, 'I've changed my mind!' He'd cry out, 'I can give myself to you, just please stop dying, stop dying, don't die on me', but he'd said what he'd said and the so-called 'control' Burt had told him he'd have had only been wielded malevolently.

Meanwhile, Puck had dropped his head on Kurt's neck and had stayed there, eyes now shut, not caring about the tremors in his messy breath that rustled the fair boy's fuzzy baby hairs, not caring what he did now at all. The words in 'LOVE' now might as well have been smudged from his mind; the unused typed up words at home, deleted, hope now lost. All that he could think of instead were the times when he'd simply been intrigued by Kurt. The first time he'd seen him, inquisitiveness and curiosity in the mix that had led to observing him from afar, the way the boy carried himself without a damn sway out of balance, so graceful, and even with torment heavy on his back, he remained ever so dignified until the end of a long day.

Fascination. Puck had become fascinated with Kurt. The boy had absorbed him of all other features of such a drab town. He had enthralled him. This boy was so different from all the others, others that whispered about him, 'Is he gay?' 'Why are his lips so red? Does he wear lipstick?' 'He makes a pretty fag'. So different with an altered sexuality and a cutie charm that drew in the girls, all wishing to hug him, to change him, to an innocent allure that unsettled the boys. They wanted to beat him up, but protect him at the same time, and for others, thinking of that so called wet 'lipsticked' mouth. There was no lipstick, the idiots, like rouge - lipstick for whores. Kurt's lips were naturally red, what every guy wanted, the 'natural' look. No whores.

Manifestation of the fascination. Jesus was it out of control. He had a crush. Love's baby, puppy love that belonged to the young and the downright stupid. Puck was crush proof. He didn't get crushes, yet there he'd been as a crusher, an oblivious crusher and he'd wanted to touch Kurt's body buttered skin, kiss those lips, but he'd hadn't known how to go about it. He hadn't known how to kiss for shit. For shit! He'd tear the boy's mouth apart if he went on like a savage, so what, fucking lessons?! Fucking lessons! Yes! A lesson act perhaps. Yes, a lesson ruse to cover it all up, learning to kiss like a dweeb in a hot chick's bedroom, and who cared? At least he'd learn with a pair of lips he wished to seal onto his with a wet smack!

Though it wasn't like that. He'd discovered Kurt to be even sweeter, even more docile and incredibly friendly as they came when surrounded by such a homely environment, the bedroom, and within those four walls, the fair boy hadn't made fun of his glasses, his once talentless mouth or anything else. Kurt had withheld within him all the character and personality Puck hoped to find in a partner, a 'soft' character that he was just a sucker for. For all these weeks, the jock's running back muscles had bulged for Kurt's diaphaneity, his Titan Testosterone had frothed deliciously for his effeminacy, and his heart, oh his heart, his heart was a lost cause. He was not going to let Kurt go, there was no choice in the matter. Kurt was his.  _HIS_.

"I don't care, Kurt. I want you to be with me. I'll stand here all day if I have to, I'm not going to leave without something," muttered Puck, unmoving, still slumped. "Give us a chance,  _please_  Kurt. No one's going to take care of you as I will. I promise I will. We can hang out in our rooms and watch old movies together in bed, eat Chinese food, I'll be an awesome lover, I'll make sex great for you, I'm real good at it. I'll get you flowers; I'll write another speech if you want, I'll do anything...  _please_."

"You'd write me another speech?"

"S-sure, if that's what you want, I got more at home."

"Would you... mind?"

"N-no, not at all. You want me to-"

"Seduce me," interrupted Kurt as Puck's face stilled in naturally fine-spun creamy chocolate hair; a boy naturally wanted to bury his face in it, to nuzzle his nose in those pheromones, nature's seducer. "I could imagine us doing everything in your speech, Puck. Every single thing you said I could picture it. You just have a way with words, and I want you to ravish me with them again. I want you to write me love letters and poems with those big talented hands; I want you to  _seduce_  me."

"S-sure..." croaked Puck, his voice hoarse from the way Kurt had said it, not flirtation, just pure need, like sex, a libido to quench, 'please Puck, fuck me!' A line not uncommon to Puck on many lonelier nights, a fantasy, Kurt needing him like a vulnerable lamb in heat. The jock could feel himself tighten, his arms, his cock. Kurt was his hot muse. He was going to write his best work for his hot muse, a hot muse that in the strip club of his heart, held the key to the champagne room.

"But this time, let's just keep it to ourselves, alright. Just the two of us, just me and you," smiled Kurt, finally taking on what his father had said, the role of his mother, her blood in his veins. The pressure now lay on Puck's literature, but Kurt had confidence in this boy. Puck had a gift and by the end of it all, hopefully he'd have a Kurt jumping into his arms, fully seduced and wanting him. Kurt wished for this. He wanted to like Puck, he wanted to get there. Hopefully, he would. " _Seduce_  me... "

With those final words uttered, Kurt pulled himself out from Puck's arms, walked the short distance back into the classroom and disappeared, leaving the jock to look on after him, the hummingbird that was his heart, beating again, as if the boy had breathed life into its body. Already the words for those love letters were scribbling themselves down, gold calligraphy on a rose tinted parchment. They'd join to become a stream of seduction, meant to seduce. Seduce. Seduce! This time, he'd need no lessons. This was something he was going to have to do without Kurt's guidance to help him, but oh, Kurt for inspiration, just to stand there like an art model, 'undraped', 'disrobed', his skin blank as a canvas for the jock's work to write upon.

Puck knew his one reader. He was dealing with a romantic. Kurt the romantic, but by no means a weak hearted individual. The boy was no lovesick girl with boneless knees and a flimsy hand to her forehead. No. Kurt was emotionally grounded, stable and put together. Fluff in spades would only sicken Kurt, like too much candy in a toddler's sugar bursting stomach, but romance the quality of 'LOVE', not afraid to speak out as 'The Mohawked Prince', to bring some true grit to the words, as if they'd been scratched into the paper, and not afraid of sex, to speak of sex, for erotica was also romantic, to feed Kurt's loins with the voices of Puck's churned up sheets, witnesses to every act, every stroke of that turgid tanned manhood. Erotic.

Straightening up from his slumped position, Puck ran a hand along his Mohawk and re-entered the classroom. Feminine eyes landed on him on his first step back in as if he still owned the room. Perhaps he did. He liked to think so. The sense of power had a tumescent affect on his masculinity, yet that didn't prevent him from kneeling down to pick up a dropped pen from the ground only to hand it back to its fair owner. The owner smiled shyly. Oh, he was pretty! An English Rose-boy prettiness to wrench the heart with a boy of American rugged handsomeness, Varsity jacket, converses and all, kneeling on one knee, smiling, beaming, as if proposing. For with this pen, he'd write these letters, with this pen, he'd seduce Kurt Hummel to be his.

_and write poems for you and wonder why you don't believe me and have a feeling so deep I can't find words for it_  
 _and tell you the worst of me and try to give you the best of me because you don't deserve any less_  
 _and answer your questions when I'd rather not and tell you the truth when I really don't want to_  
 _and try to be honest because I know you prefer it and ask you to marry me..._


	20. I See You

The silence of the parking lot stood still. The school bell hadn't rung for some time and the cars of their students and teachers were parked in their designated spaces, with some neatly positioned within their bays, whilst others looked as if they had been parked any old how, as if they were model motorcars on a play set and a child - their God - had let them skid into position, to crash. This child, however, with their pudgy fingers and rough nature, had not stopped playing. The new model motorcar, Navigator, came screeching into the parking lot, skidded into an empty bay and no sooner had the engine been cut, then the driver had bolted from the vehicle and into the building, his hip bruising from his swinging Visconti messenger bag.

The driver was late. He was very late. Kurt had never been this late to McKinley before, and it was as if he were walking the Walk of the Shame because of it. His disheveled clothes had large rumples, creased with underlying crinkles around his joints, the story of an impatient struggle. His hair that had been washed and richly conditioned, had somewhat dried from work of the wind, a natural blow dry leaving it matte, as if he'd dusted it with too strong a powder, and his skin once moist and even toned, human like, now a flushed mess, with lips redder than usual and cheeks pinched too hard in the cheeks from broken capillaries, eyes electric blue, a boy doll, a poorly constructed boy doll with a tardy now stamped on his attendance record.

The work of a fragrance had brought such a state of affairs to pass. Back home, seven in the morning with a warm bed that had attempted to coax Kurt back in, his mind had led a body still comatose in slumber through his morning routine, though no sooner had he neared his bathroom then from an accidental nudge to his Vanity, his fragrance had fallen to the floor. It had been too early in the morning to react to. A large stain beside an empty bottle of Victor & Rolf's  _Antidote_  had met Kurt's cloudy eyes once they'd cleared and a bucket of water and a sponge had found themselves right next to them a minute later, scrubbing away the top notes of grapefruit, pepper and mint atop America's flag, all fifty stars now smelling of the Orient.

Hurrying over to his locker with another wince creasing his eyes from a damn messenger bag that battered his hip over and over again, Kurt didn't pay much attention to the now mute soundtrack of the hall. There was no clanging of locker doors, the bitchy gossip from slippery lip glossed mouths or the stampede like shuffle of feet, as students would file into classrooms like cattle. There was no sound at all in such dismal looking hallway with bland colors, bare, clinically lit and eerie, as if each locker were now morgue storage shelves for cadavers and their weary looking kids, zombies, shaved and harshly showered with jets. Not until now had Kurt realized how ugly McKinley was without anyone in it, without the buzz of teen hormonal life.

Such a gritty train of thought, however, was quick to end. As soon as Kurt had unlocked and opened his locker, preparing to whip out his appropriate text books before performing a quick minute gussy up in his little inside door mirror, out of the corner of his eye, a blood red envelope fluttered down to land beside his feet. Out of surprise, he stepped back, brows frowning, nerves bubbling, now eying it warily, before darting his gaze to his locker. It appeared the envelope have been poorly pinned to the inside of the metal door, so that when it opened, the action would dislodge it from position, although Kurt couldn't be sure. All he did know was that this didn't belong to him. Someone had broken into his locker and put it there.

Picking the envelope up, Kurt examined it under a set of eyes that remained wary. He had thought patterns of hate mail, one that was encased in the shade of human blood so hostile, as if it had been planned that way to intimidate, to frighten. The work of jock. A breed trained in intimidation. They themselves were clad in the color, so was Kurt with his Cheerio uniform, but this shade appeared hostile, virulent, encouraging ominous meanings of Red - danger, anger, hate. The hideous chill had the marrow in Kurt's bones turning to lead and he desperately needed medication. He thought to rip the envelope in two like an executioner, to release its content of hate in shreds and to leave the remains to the janitor, Kurt's faithful assistant.

However, as he composed himself, the terror in his glassy eyes shrinking somewhat, only then did he take further notice of the envelope. The fold at the back had been sealed with gold wax, embossed with a love letter mail design imprinted from an intaglio seal matrix stamp, whilst at the front, written in superb freehand penmanship was his name, 'Kurt', also in gold, rendering a sense of luxury to the envelope. It had the look of a formal invitation to a Ball or an event equally as decadent. The color scheme was no longer threatening, but romantic. The use of wax wasn't for security, but for ceremony and finally, the seal impression left behind had been to authenticate that what he held before him was indeed a genuine love letter.

Kurt looked down at it as if it were a love letter centuries old, as if he were supposed to wear gloves so that the destructive oils on his finger tips wouldn't damage the beauty that lay in his hands, for it was beautiful, too beautiful to open. Once he'd open it, that would be it, there would be no turning back. Its value would decrease like a mint condition toy removed from its box only to be played with, yet not opening the letter would defeat its purpose, rendering it only logical to see what had been written for him, and that's what was done. The fold was opened, the white letter was removed from within and the boy doll read, his face now sweeter than his whiter than Marshmallow Fluff skin, his over sized glassy, shiny blue eyes twinkling.

**_~ Platinum Flesh ~_ **

_My face darkens pleasurably with blood every time I look at you._   
_I wish to speak, but I don't. I smile, but a beam shines from within._   
_The light in your eyes dapples and undulates like reflected water,_   
_and I'm thrilled at your beauty, almost intimidated, almost resentful._

_In my mind, I shyly yet boldly, with the air of the running back I am,_   
_scoring the winning touchdown of the season, let my hand fall onto yours._   
_Twice as large it is, darkly tanned, yours feminine-pale, lotion soft_   
_Soft like your coconut cotton-candy hair, soft as those pillowed lips._

_Am I your Jock? One you make feel a Benzedrine rush in its purest form  
_ _Can I be feeling this? Is it happening as your hand now falls in mine?  
_ _A hand so small in the palm of one so big, brought up for the kiss. Kiss.  
_ _For I am your Dark Prince, my lips on my platinum-fleshed Cheerleader._

_**Noah** _

Kurt had lost count of how many times his eyes had taken in every sentence and every word on the page, not that he'd been keeping count. He'd been like a child learning to read, whispering aloud with a tiny hushed voice a whole sentence before continuing or stumbling over a word before rereading yet again, and not because he had trouble reading or because the text itself was illegible - on the contrary it was superb - but because each word written was like a rare gem, as if his 'Dark Prince' had cut, shaped and polished them from his mind. Even the gold ink used had a fluorescence, reflecting the harsh light of the hall in a pretty fashion, boasting beautiful presentation and content that had Kurt's soul enraptured in complete serenity.

Puck had written him a love poem, or moreover 'Noah' had written him a love poem, and like the ballad 'Silhouette' the jock had sung him weeks ago in the auditorium, Kurt could imagine the amount of thought and effort that had gone into such an endeavor. Translating Puck's mind onto paper, drafting up numerous versions of the letter before it was finalized. The hours spent practicing his calligraphy to achieve a woven masterpiece of gold as well as ignoring minor burns on calloused finger tips that felt no pain from accidents with scolding wax, learning to pour just the right amount on paper before sealing it with an adorable stamp that Kurt suspected either belonged to Puck's sister, Sarah, or was a recent purchase from the art store.

As Kurt lowered the letter onto his chest, the paper shuddering from the earthquake that was his thunderous heartbeat, he sighed contentedly, his feet stumbling forward to lean against the lockers. Like his mother had done before him, he was intent on keeping this letter, along with any other future letter Puck might send his way. He'd also keep their accompanying envelopes that had housed such romantic words to recall of these moments, moments of body enriching warmth that encircled him with such a romantic infused high, a drug like high, with happy fears of an overdose, one that would have him spaced out naked in bed, a giggling smile on his foaming mouth, the foam of Puck's candy hearts - 'Kiss Me', 'Cutie', 'Be Mine'.

The school bell was quick to rupture Kurt from his thoughts, like a morning alarm, incessantly ringing a haunting melody from large dome shaped bells in the ceiling that apparently had been around since the seventies. He returned the letter into its envelope and slipped it safety into a secluded pocket in his messenger bag, being careful not to crease it as he did, before grabbing hold of his text books from his locker and pelting down the corridor as students burst from their classrooms, swarming about on trudging feet, a low hum of narcissistic conversation once again in the air. Now this felt more like McKinley, the school a body, the halls its veins, with its population its blood, circulating, functioning, keeping it alive and well.

American History was just beyond the door Kurt now stood before. It was a double period, starting at the first and ending at the second, meaning the lesson was only half way through, another thirty-five minutes to go before the bell would signal his sweet relief from the bloodthirsty hands of Mrs. Hagberg. Today, everyone was to present with their chosen partners before the class, research on their latest topic of study - the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre of 1929, a gruesome event that had followed on from their previous study of Twenties Prohibition. Yet for Kurt, it was like all the others, another murder, another proud example of America's violent history, criminal gangs, bullet shots in a white brick wall and the blood of seven men.

Placing his hand on the door handle as if he himself were about to face his own execution by gunfire, Kurt knocked on the door before entering. As he'd predicted, all curious eyes fell on him to Mrs. Hagberg's verbal accompaniment of 'you're late, Mr. Hummel', to which he quietly replied, 'I'm sorry, Mrs. Hagberg. On my way here, the driver in front of me knocked down someone's dog, but kept on driving. I-I couldn't do the same.' It was a lie. Nothing that morning had happened of the sort, only years ago, when his mother had jumped out of the car with him, aged six, still strapped in the back to save a German Shepard Dog knocked down. Severe trauma, crushed legs. It would never chase a ball again. A few hours later, it was dead.

Luckily Mrs. Hagberg, in the midst of disheartened expressions struck by such dampening news, instructed Kurt to his seat. He was grateful she hadn't pressed the matter or given him the third degree before further memories of that day had flashed before him. Images of his mother returning to the car, eyes red rimmed as if the tears she'd cried were acid like, painful, searing, her hands as well as her floral white dress stained with blood, the blood of someone's best friend and beloved pet. It all hadn't had a chance to come to mind before Lauren turned to him from her seat in front, eying him as if he'd  _planned_  to ditch her, to  _force_  her to present their research alone, though Kurt did not care for it. He cared nothing for any of this.

Ever since their weeklong JonBenét Ramsey topic of study, he and Lauren had remained acquaintances, bonding only over their shared hatred of the dismal subject curriculum. Neither one of them had put any effort into developing it into friendship from lack of interest and American History was the sole lesson they shared. As a result of their seating arrangement, both of them would find themselves paired when it came to classroom discussions, discussions that would struggle to take off when all that would be sat before Kurt was a face that would barely twitch with acknowledgement of his existence and eyes diverted and dilated upon the object of her fantasy-filled affections, the source of her enslaving obsession. Who else? Puck.

To be honest, Kurt didn't know whether Lauren had begun to actively pursue the jock or not. In fact, he didn't know whether she was still into him. Crushes could so often die from an inhospitable environment that was the hormonal jungle of teenage capriciousness and knowing Lauren and her rather blasé attitude to most things, no doubt she now found Puck to be like any other of the jocks in the crowd, only with a haircut that belonged on a seventies punk rocker. His indications, in fact, were somewhat supported as soon as she'd finished glaring at him. She'd shifted round to face the front without her eyes even flickering to the back, to sneak a peek at Puck, as if her interest had waned, as if the happy puppy in this love was now dead.

"Speak up, I can't hear you!" "Pick it up, come on!" "Don't look down at your paper, look at us!" Orders barked from a sharp tongue, exiting from a mouth as thin as a slit, almost military like. Through every one of the ten-minute presentations, Mrs. Hagberg was the lashless, furious Victorian Headmistress long thought extinct. She forced those who'd finished early to expand on their research and others she'd cut in mid speech when they'd surpassed the time limit, 'rambling bobble heads' she'd call them. Kurt and Lauren themselves had managed to escape with only minor criticism. Overall steady pacing, great research, but as 'lackadaisical' as a zoo's star attraction that was too languid to entertain the crowds of wide-eyed kids.

Returning to their seats, both Kurt and Lauren were content enough to brush off a criticism that barely stained the quality of their work. The issue with this endless stream of presentations was that they were all focused on the same subject. The same facts were being regurgitated, the same names, dates, everything was on repeat, like a history podcast that wouldn't end, or an extremely drab playlist stuck in a loop. Kurt took pride in the fact that he'd come to do his research, he'd barely covered the generic like foundations of the event, instead having focused on hidden facts of interest that had had greater chance of not being mentioned by his peers, separating his work, spicing it up, a secret ingredient that had had them all listening.

"Mr. Hummel, we need you up here," came Mrs. Hagberg's voice as Kurt blinked from his thoughts to see the teacher's stubby finger pointing fixedly to the head of the class where Puck now stood beside the board with his PowerPoint presentation projected brightly on it's white surface. "Since Ms. Summers isn't with us today, Mr. Puckerman here has no partner, and seeing as you were late to my lesson, I think it only fair if you help him out. Up you come, chop-chop, we don't have all day."

"Oh, but I... oh, okay," relented Kurt, piling his own set of notes into his arms and shuffling from out of his seat to join the jock at the front. There he deposited his papers beside the computer, pointlessly neatening them, before he straightened up to lock eyes with Puck, a boy who perceived his flustered state as beautiful, as if the fair boy was an ingenue in his first stage performance. "So... how do you want to go about this, Puck?" Kurt asked timidly. "Should I pitch in whenever or do you-"

"Let's take it in turns," suggested Puck smiling as Kurt fleeted a glimpse over at Mrs. Hagberg tapping her foot impatiently, yet his attention returned as the jock lowered his lips to his ear. Puck's breath was thick and cloudy with nerves, nerves for him, not for this presentation. Blood flooding into his face, his skin bronzed into a darker tone with lips freshly licked, slick, moist. "I can look at you if I want to take over and you can do the same, but you know, feel free to go wild with it...  _babe_."

Babe. Jesus, the word sounded good. It had been whispered huskily, as if fresh from a sensual soft-core porn movie, but with an underlying base of intimacy that had Kurt almost leaning in, wishing for another term of endearment, craving Puck say more. He was still dangerously high from the jock's love letter, sedating him into a sense of somnolence that wished for nothing but for him to continue sighing happily away and nothing but a steaming-hot black coffee with tablets of Dexedrine dissolving in its depths could possibly wake him from his intoxication, that and Mrs. Hagberg herself as she cleared her throat, instantly separating them both as Kurt shuffled awkwardly to one side of the board whilst Puck remained by the computer.

The class had seen better presentations. Due to the last minute partner arrangement posing somewhat of a handicap, both Puck and Kurt attempted to work with what they had, or moreover what the jock had written out prior to the lesson with Natalia, mediocre research that spoke volumes of a breakdown of communication that had occurred between the two, yet it was to be expected. After the incident at Puck's home, Kurt could sympathize with the sheer amount discomfort that must have befallen them, rendering Natalia's absence unsurprising, but now leaving her tanned partner to struggle before his peers as he attempted to present second-rate work of inferior quality that only had Mrs. Hagberg slowly shaking her head.

Kurt's heartstrings were being tugged ever more forcefully as he looked on pathetically by the side. He felt as though he was a useless sidekick, an idle assistant that stood watch as an inutile tool, as though he was still that child strapped tightly in the back of his parent's car as his mother had attempted to resuscitate that dying German Shepard in the road. The memory had him recalling he'd never helplessly stand watch like that again, and so like the Good Samaritan his mother had been all those years ago, Kurt stepped boldly into the spotlight that was the projector's bluish beam and opened his mouth, words now let loose that had been unheard of in his own presentation, words that had been his that were now shared with Puck.

The jock was staring at the fair boy. If there had been a script between them (which there originally had been with Natalia), Puck wouldn't have had a single line. It would have been only a slight exaggeration to say he was struck dumb, now a gaping mouth of relief that had let forth nothing but broken sentences and stuttered words. Kurt's impulsive childlike way of expression, with his doughy-kindly face and gesturing hands invited his classmates in. He pointed to the PowerPoint, now controlling it from the computer and there stood the jock behind him, with a body that had moved like a wounded animal's, blundering, now relaxed, his first smile since they'd begun, but with grateful fingers that craved to touch his little boy savior.

With a set of concluding words that accompanied the final slide of the presentation, both Puck and Kurt managed to wrap the PowerPoint up nicely that had everyone in the class letting out somewhat of a drone of applause, every set of eyes flickering over to the clock above the board, their belongings already packed, their bodies itching for dismissal. The lesson was soon to end, with the bell about to ring any second now...  _RING!_  Yet this didn't encourage Puck and Kurt to join in the frenzy of the great escape as their hoard of peers rushed from the room as a swarm. Both of them took their time collecting their things and returning to their seats, the classroom now rapidly emptying around them with Kurt himself about to head out until-

"Come here you little angel," came a tender voice behind him as thick arms wrapped around his chest, whipped him around and spun him in the air as if he were a child or a plush toy stuffed with the lightest filling, possibly even cloud itself, round and round like an elevated merry-go-round, until he was finally encased in a hug, warm-hearted, but mostly warm, Puck's body a thermal entity under his Letterman jacket. "You're amazing you know that. What you did for me up there, so amazing."

"That's what I was there for," smiled Kurt, struggling to regain his breath that fluttered baby-like in the wake of the jock's overwhelming gratitude before letting himself hang loosely in Puck's arms, leaving those great athletic arms to keep him upright as they swayed him gently from side to side. Such affection had Kurt puckering his lips, bringing them up to Puck's ear as the jock had done earlier, whispering softly, huskily. "Besides, it was the last thing I could have done for my 'Dark Prince.'"

"You... you got my letter?" Asked Puck, his voice surprised with high notes, notes that quivered with nerves once again. He loosened his hold on Kurt's torso, now facing each other, a good look shared. The fair boy could still see remnants of sweat that had glistened atop the jock's forehead during the presentation, beads that had caught the projector's light, they were still there, not heavy enough to drip but noticeable enough, attention drawing, almost hypnotic. "So... what did you think?"

" _Amazing_ ," smiled Kurt, swiftly plunging his hand into his messenger bag, his fingers rummaging slightly, before pulling out the love letter and holding it proudly in front of it's grinning creator, the mohawked author. There the fair boy flipped it over repeatedly with a smile so fond it was as if it was his new favorite possession, a precious item kept under his fluffed pillow or in his bedside drawer, only taken out on troubled nights, replacing the heat of warm milk, replacing the idea of sleep itself.

"Really? It's not too... sappy?"

"No, I like it when you're sentimental."

"Would you like it if I... kissed you?"

"You can kiss my 'platinum fleshed' hand."

"Anything for my little cheerleader," smirked Puck with a charming undertone, stepping back, alleviating the space between them as he took up Kurt's hand in his. The letter had spoken the truth. The fair boy's hand, which Kurt himself had always thought to be of average size, was rendered smaller and even paler in that of the jock's, the latter dark, wide palmed with fine black hairs on the backs that lifted Kurt's own to moist lips where a tender hand kiss was born, long held and savored.

Puck's lips appeared to feast themselves with such fervid hunger, that it had Kurt's own mouth watering, curious as to whether this platinum flesh of his really was that delicious. The sensations were pleasurable, but a light sting of pain that had the hair on his arm now erect, obliged him to take note of the hickey the jock had stained his hand with, now soothing it with a tongue that massaged across it like a warm wet ice cube, gliding, now gone. Puck looked up at Kurt through bedroom eyes never before seen in any bedroom, brand new and fresh, before winking, 'await my next letter,' it said, as the jock paced back, a smirk growing on lips so swollen, so full on creamy flesh dosage it couldn't help but widen with satisfaction.

Taking a look at his hand once Puck had gone, Kurt took note of the many small superficial blood vessels that had been burst near the surface. One might think it painful at first glance, but Puck had sucked so well the pain had hardly been registered, just the way he had been taught by his fair tutor. At the time, when they'd practiced the Hickey Kiss, Kurt had asked Puck to practice below the neckline at the collar bone so that it would make it easier to conceal with clothing, but with one now on his hand, as if he'd been stamped with a pretty seal into a club on Valentine's Day, it was out in the open for everyone to see, the shade of ripe plum and dying strawberry molded in a shape of a heart? How had Puck done that? Kurt was impressed.

"Well, well, well, I'd never have thought. Look whose next on Puckerman's to-do list," came an ominous voice, coated in slight amusement as Kurt exited the room only to come face to face with Lauren. She'd just been there, positioned beside the door ready and waiting for him to leave, wishing for him to experience a scare from a psychological horror film to render his skin a translucent shade of ghost white as she laughed. "Got to hand it to you Hummel, nice scheme. You fooled me good."

"I'm not trying to fool you, Lauren," muttered Kurt guardedly, stepping out from the girl's overbearing shadow as she neared him like a sumo wrestler of champion like status, a guard that would not let him pass, as if he'd said the wrong code word for the exit, now he had to die. He tucked Puck's love letter back into his bag with fingertips tremoring with fright before he continued to back away, the distance the only defense he had not to play. "Look I know you like him, and I'm sorry, but-"

"You know, if I were still hot for Puckerman, I'd be taking you down right here in this hall way and snapping the twig that is your flimsy body," seethed Lauren threateningly as if she was about to coat the floor with his sweetened strawberry jam, quickening her strides by a fraction, hardly a shift in speed at all but a shift Kurt picked up on none the less in a state of fright. "Luckily for you, he's day old bread to my libido, so can he send you as many love letters as he likes, I am  _so_  over him."

"Okay. Why?" Asked Kurt in return as the expression on Lauren's face seemed to wither from her mock anger into one that had her rolling her eyes. In spite of discovering that when up close, Puck was rather puffy who overdid it on the Axel spray just to cover the stench of sour semen from his various sexual escapades, she'd found his badass persona the one trait to save it all, the real turn on feature, yet even that was gone, as well as the thick cloud of deodorant and man milk gone bad.

"Did you not hear me, Hummel? He sent you a fucking  _love letter_. I preferred him when he was trying to be a 'badass', like when kids play house and pretend to be people they're not, it was hotter seeing him as that than how he is now," answered Lauren as if she cared enough to be genuinely disappointed, a similar disappointment she felt when people put ketchup on prime ribs. "All this romance bullshit has ruined him for me. Not that I care anymore, he can play Mr. Darcy all he wants."

"He's not 'playing' anyone, Lauren. He's just being himself."

"Right, because being himself is being in love with you."

"He's not in love with me."

"From what I've eavesdropped on he will be sooner or later. Weakhearted fool."

"Just because you can't stomach the idea of romance, Lauren. Your body is starved of it," replied Kurt, yet with a finalizing smirk that only dared the boy to say more, Lauren's chest let a rumbling chuckle, one that withheld such bass it was perhaps too deep for such a light-hearted laugh, but it was indeed a laugh of ridicule. Kurt knew that what he'd said had only come across as nonsense to Lauren, for love was nothing to her but a 'fantasy feeling for playground kids and their plastic tiaras.'

Adjusting her own bag onto her shoulder, Lauren walked round him and made her way down the corridor as Kurt continued to stare irritably in the opposite direction at the spot where she'd once stood, his hand hovering over his bag, digging into its black leather, the flap opening, fingers entering, Puck's letter once again in his palms. He knew Lauren mustn't have been the only one to have noticed the jock's change in character, but Kurt would let them all think and talk whatever they wanted. He'd let them all believe Puck had been tranquilized with Valium or Nembutal, because after all, they wouldn't know someone trying to better themselves anymore than they could notice the janitors. Not one, but him.  _Don't worry, Noah. I see you._

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

The following weekend had Kurt strapped tightly in the passenger seat of a dark grey Nissan, Rachel Berry at the wheel and the radio - that had been fondled with, the buttons covered in an array of faint traced fingerprints left behind by fully sterilized hands - had the tunes of American bubblegum-pop playing on low volume. The car wheels sped for the Lima movie theater, Les Miserables set to show in fifteen minutes and all the while the fair boy, looking out the window, trying to hear his thoughts over melodies that had been sweetened with too many nursery rhyme like hooks, tried not to let out an audible enough sigh meant only to distract the driver charged with excitement, her adrenaline pumped with too worked up a body.

Kurt hadn't originally wished on accompanying Rachel to the movies and she in turn hadn't wished to resort into guilt tripping him into joining her, the story of how until now she hadn't had any friends, persuading him, how she used to take her lunch down to the maintenance room and eat with the janitor until his wife called her a 'puta' and made her stop, the persuasion at that point having ditched the soft baby feeding bites from the soft spoon into one of prison force-feeding. He couldn't deal with the guilt, even if had been conjured by Rachel, and it had been off to see Hugh Jackman, Russell Crowe and Anne Hathaway on the big screen, too bigger screen in too higher definition this early in the morning for Kurt's waking weary eyes.

The fair boy had no energy to spend watching a 158-minute movie. Musical be damned, he had a love letter to read, a brand spanking new one, freshly received this morning when his father had returned from the mailbox with the red envelope caught in between a set of bills and pamphlets for the town's upcoming farmer's market. Burt had handed it over to him, questioning him with a knowing smirk as to what it was and to who is was from, but Kurt had not divulged anything. He knew his father had had an idea of what it was (what with the love letter mail icon on the wax seal, and a refusal to believe in the possibility that his son's Chinese friend Tina had begun writing to him) and he was grateful Burt had not gone too far into it, for now.

However, the fact that his father was now aware of these love letters was not be concerned about. It wasn't as if the man was reading them. Kurt was staying true to the arrangement he'd laid down with Puck at the start, that this be between them and them alone. Besides, his interests lay more in the actual letters themselves rather than in the second third party member who now knew of his love letter dalliance with the jock, after Lauren, as well as interested on they'd been planted right under his nose without him noticing. The first, in his locker, the second, in his bag, the third, under his windshield wipers, all having been hidden tactfully so as to render them invisible to a brief glimpse, the flash of red, the real giveaway.

Oh, the flashes of red. Kurt had learned to keep his eyes out for them like a child on an Easter egg hunt, some harder to find than others, a real hunt. This was no schedule for when they'd be set before him, no select dates, no chosen times. It was a random game, but when he'd catch that flash, that amber flash that would rest in his palm, as he'd lie on his bed, evening time, his heart egging him on to open it, nothing could deter his attention from gold ink and Puck's feelings written neatly on moon-white pieces of paper. There he'd store every single one in his beside drawer, watching with a giddy smile how they would collect, how the pile would rise, the extent of Puck's feelings growing now into a library of poems and baby novellas.

However, the language, grammar and form that made this little library what it was continued to amaze Kurt, for it was so unlike Puck to use them, so different from his colloquial way of speaking, the latter masculine, crude and to the point with a limited vocabulary, yet with an extensive range of curse words and self-appointed nicknames for both him and his genitalia. When in his first few weeks at McKinley, Kurt had judged the jock's speech patterns as uneducated, stunted and crass with a wicked sense of humor that only worsened it, yet now with Puck into him, his voice low and intimate, his tone charming and sexy with his eloqaunt words writing themselves down on rich paper, Kurt at this point, could not have grown any fonder.

With a grinding halt that had the pressure of Kurt's belt pushing into his chest and bladder as if it were crushing his ribcage as a cruel wake up call, the car lurched to a stop in the parking lot of the movie theater. The engine died, the key was taken out from the ignition and a seat belt was unbuckled soon after which the slam of a car door was heard. Kurt winced his eyes each time these sounds was made, his hungover like head translating them into thunderous crashes as he too exited the car, his feet dragging, his body slightly slumped with his head tilted into the air, eyes closed, breathing, as Rachel bounded ahead into the theater, passersby eying her with amusement, some whispering to each other in hushed comic tones.

Upon entrance, the air conditioner ruffling his hair and blanketing his face with a cool gust, Kurt opened his eyes to see a near deserted theater atrium. Apart from staff positioned at their various stations at both the ticket stalls and food kiosks, hardly anyone was around. It was a welcoming sight, considering Kurt didn't believe himself presentable enough to step into a crowd, and to have that crowd see him out with a friend as hyperactive and chipper as Rachel Berry, who'd already by this point purchased them both their tickets and was jogging back over to him, handing over his stub with hands that wouldn't stop moving with a coffee crazed seizure like thrill, the balls of her feet bobbing her body up and down like Jell-O on springs.

"Okay, so the next screening doesn't start for another six or seven minutes so we have time to go buy food or there's the cafe upstairs. What do you want to do?" Asked Rachel enthusiastically as Kurt merely hummed in response, looking down at the in your face color of his ticket with disdain. Urgh, neon orange or nectarine. It was almost as if the movie theater hadn't updated its stub design since the eighties, although the sheer brightness was quick to waken his eyes that much further.

"Rachel, don't buy anything here. They overprice everything," replied Kurt as he followed Rachel further into the atrium. The truth was Rachel didn't like eating anything when she watched movies, especially musicals. The crackling of wrappers, the munching of food, the slurping of sodas, she believed it just as bad as those who recited the lines with the actors, or in this case, who sang along, unless they had voices as good as hers, in which case she'd only get jealous and become irritated anyway.

"It's all right Kurt, I'll pay. We need to get some sugar in you quick, you look like you're about to faint," smiled Rachel looking at him, grabbing his hand and dragging him over to the food kiosks. If sugar was what she wanted in him, she'd brought him to the right place. Everything on the menu from food to drink was crammed full with processed sugar, industrial by products and Trans fatty acids like Hydrogenated Petroleum Oil, Model sodium Poisonade and Partially De-weaponized Plutonium.

"Rachel, please. You must know how toxic all this stuff is."

"I'm not saying have a lot, just have a little something."

"I can't, Rach, I'm a Cheerio. You know how it is."

"Give it a rest Kurt, I know about your high metabolism."

"Damn... well just get me a cola then, a small one," requested Kurt, offering his friend a tired smile as if backing down from the battle, surrendering, before he'd be forced fed sugared intoxicants through feeding tubes in his mouth. He gave discreet looks around the vast atrium for a rubbish bin he'd be able to dispose his yet to be served refreshment in, or perhaps a sick and withering plant pot already dying from the fumes that were popcorn belly burps. Either one would have to do for now.

"Is that it? Just a cola? You don't want anything els-ew! What is that?" Cringed Rachel, Kurt whipping around to see her pointing up at the row of screens above the menu board, each one depicting a picture slideshow of every single item of food and drink the theater sold, the current one on display - a breakfast monstrosity, 'The Good Morning Burger', eighteen ounces of sizzling ground beef soaked in rich creamy butter, topped with bacon, ham and a fried egg. "God... that looks disgusting!"

"I told you. Oh... here comes another one," smirked Kurt as the slideshow progressed to yet another burger, 'The Belly Buster Burger', with accompanying sixty dollar 'Belly Buster Ice Cream Sundae', served, of all things, inside an actual wheelbarrow. The warning signs of laughter at Rachel's expression of shock, her skin now sporting a light shade of green, were quick to rise and Kurt had to stifle its escape with his hands, muffled giggles abound. "You still feeling a little peckish?"

"Maybe we'll just go with the sodas. Oh God, that is gross," shuddered Rachel, turning around to face him, her stomach already preparing to shoot up her belly into her throat as she was quick to miss the limited edition candy bars now revolving on the screen, pure milk chocolate, farm fresh honey calorie death in a wrapper, sprinkled on with four kinds of sugar and dipped in rich creamery butter, always the butter. No doubt they dipped sticks of it in their coffee too, their tea and their hot chocolate.

"I'm just going to make myself comfortable over on one of those seats by the posters, all right," began Kurt, making his to leave, yet with his arm still clamped in Rachel's grasp, her hold tightening, he couldn't. She gave the impression it would only take one more look at that assortment of heart-hurting burgers for her stomach to lurch for good and Kurt didn't want to fall out of favor with the theater staff. "But if you want me to do it, I can. It looks like you're the one about to faint now, Rach."

"No, I can do this. I can order two colas. I just don't have to look up and think of how this country is slowly eating it's way to death," answered Rachel, recovering herself with a long breath, her skin moist and flushed, bordering feverish looking but healthy as Kurt set her on way to the counter, the girl looking back at him as she noticed him retreating to the seats by the side before she turned around and set her order, wishing for it to hurry, for it to pour faster, for the cups to fill faster! God!

"What is up with you, Stubbles?" Came a masculine voice behind her, one that did not belong to Kurt, too deep a voice box with thicker vocals chords that seemed to rumble out the accusatory question, a tone in her anxious state that she did not appreciate, one that belonged, as she turned around, to Noah Puckerman, clad in a fitting black wife beater, a sun faded grey shirt, slightly rumpled loose jeans and muddy brown boots, that by the look of them, took effort to lift with a heavy sole.

"Oh great, it's you," huffed Rachel, her arms now crossed, her body in defense, ready to fend off, yet with a distracting tick in her left eye, the phobia of greasy foods behind her stirring her belly into curdles, and the jock wasn't helping. Staring at her with an empty smirk, he only served to rile her up, for they weren't friends, merely acquaintances on bad terms, a bad past with scissors carving 'Midget', 'Hobbit' or 'Skinny Garanimal-Wearing-Ass-Kisser' on her folders, graffiti that had cut real deep.

"Yeah it's me, but I don't know what your deal is," replied Puck, gesturing to her jittery body, one that appeared to have created its own sugar rush without help of sugar itself, the work of amphetamines perhaps, although Berry on such a drug would just be overkill to those unfortunate around. She was already plenty chipper. "You might want to dial it down a little, you're only going to see..." now leaning in to see her stub, "Les Mis? Nope, dial it up, boring ass movie coming your way."

"Oh like you would know, Puckerman. In fact, it's with that ignorance that makes it harder for distributors to release movies of real quality instead of those awful blockbusters of yours," retorted Rachel, her anger over the topic flourishing ominously into her temples and startling into her cheeks, for it was of her opinion that superficial special affects, stunts and the objectifying of women be replaced with motion pictures of substance and award season contenders, the real masterpieces of cinema.

"Yeah well at least the movie I'm going to see is in 3D. Will the miserable people in your film come out of your screen? No," smirked Puck, waving his 3D glasses in front of her as if it were a golden prize, freshly brandished from his pocket as Rachel merely rolled her eyes, her patience with the jock's now immature behavior wearing thin. She wasn't a fan of 3D either. A marketing gimmick, she believed it to be, too early in its stages to be worth seeing a movie in, let alone paying more for it.

"What movie are you going to see?"

"... Monsters Inc."

"Aren't you a little old to be watching that, Puckerman?"

"Aren't you a little young to be wearing your nanna's clothes, Berry?"

"Yeah well... respect your elders, man child. You'll blend right into the crowd of kindergartners as the creepy loner at a kid's movie," argued Rachel angrily, Puck letting out an exasperated sigh, his head shaking as he stood aside to reveal his mother, along with his younger sister, Sarah, both of them talking away to each other right behind him. Well, this was embarrassing. "Oh... well... how sweet. Noah Puckerman on a family outing with the rest of his Puckerman clan. They must be paying you."

"And who are you with, Berry? Not here by yourse-" Words were cut from the jock's mouth as soon as Rachel's sodas were placed on the countertop, the swish of brunette hair breezing them away as if ending the conversation. There she paid the cashier, told him with a brief smile to keep the change and exited the queue, Puckerman's words now recovered, belting themselves out. "Always nice talking to you, Berry! Didn't mean to get you all short... oops, poor choice of words! My bad!"

Rachel's escape could not have come sooner. She feared for her sodas, her fingers squeezing their weak sides, ready to blow. She feared for her teeth grinding themselves down into little white nubs, with nothing left for sugar itself to decay, and she feared she'd reach Kurt before she'd calm down. 'What's wrong?' he'd ask her in that soft voice, one so soft you'd hardly believe he'd ever raised it to anyone, and always so gentle, always reassuring when concerned. The thought of him here was enough to simmer her anger down, for jock's like Puckerman just brought out the worst in her. There were no conversations with them, or none that were civil, just confrontations, light teasing so infuriating she couldn't stand to bear their presence.

However, it was the intimidation that was the worst. With Puckerman, even if he was no longer actively bullying her, the intimidation he seemed to radiate always had her cowering with nothing but a shell of skin for defense. The jock had packs of muscle under his, forming a carved frame broad enough to have had blocked out his family behind him. The threads in his wife beater had strained, his exposed forearms elevating the 'gun' range, and an overall physique that spoke heavily of gym workouts, rumors having circulated of a strict regime, hours long, even steroid use, the latter particularly popular among his envious Titan teammates, though unlikely. Puckerman wasn't a cheater, but there  _was_  something running through his veins.

"Remind me to bring water bottles next time. I'm starting to ask myself whether these sodas were worth it," moaned Rachel as she returned to join Kurt where he sat. A piece of paper had been in his hand. He'd held it like a letter with its bright red envelope resting on his knee, yet now it was packed away, his hands free to fiddle themselves in thought only to break upon hearing her voice, his face now furrowed. "I just ran into Puckerman by the food kiosk. He's over there with his family."

"Really?" Asked Kurt, his body perking up, his eyes now fully rounded and orbicular, his water irises swimming, but down played into a sense of mere curiosity as Rachel handed over his soda. The straw was quick to be sucked, squeezed to death by suction, and upon the first drop of cola onto his tongue, the boy's senses livened as his eyes shot on over to the food kiosk, no queue present, just three people, the Sheets-N-Things group, the mother, the sister, the son, the Puckerman trio.

"Yeah, he was a jerk as always. He called me 'Stubbles'. I don't why he even calls me that. It's not like I have any facial hair... does it?" Asked Rachel self-consciously, lifting her face and presenting a hair free chin that had Kurt shaking his head, 'no, Rach'. She had nothing to worry about, for at least 'Stubbles' was better than having your limited sex appeal likened to an 'Eskimo's frozen ball sack'. "Anyway, we'd better go drink these in the actual theater, I don't want to run into him again."

"He was only teasing you, Rachel, and I'm sure you said some things back," smiled Kurt, an amused breath escaping him as he returned to his straw, sucking away with his lips poutier than usual, too pouty as he looked on towards the kiosk, sucking suggestively away, losing control of his facial muscles, losing it, now regaining it as he frowned down at his cup as if he'd just affronted public decency, so inappropriate. "Besides, I think he's pretty much harmless with his family right next to him."

"That's alright for you to you say Kurt, you're not the one who almost got killed," exaggerated Rachel, the sound of Kurt's rolling eyes heavy and weighed as the girl sucked violently at her straw, almost causing it to shrivel, creases now appearing at her own mouth as she too eyed Puckerman, the tick in her left eye growing stronger as if like a flashing warning. "I mean look at him. Have you seen how much muscle he's packing under there? You can't tell me that doesn't scares you a little."

"Yes, but we know him Rachel. It would be different if we didn't, but we do. Besides, it's not as if he was going to carry you out back and throw you in the dumpster, he's not like that anymore," replied Kurt, watching as his friend lowered her soda cup to glance at him before lowering them further down to the floor. "Look Rach, you may not like him, but he's in Glee club, and you're always going on about how important it is to maintain a good working relationship with your fellow teammates."

"Mmm... tell me something, Kurt. Is the kind of body Puckerman has what you find attractive in a man?" Asked Rachel suddenly, so direct, such precise noisiness, catching Kurt off guard as she nodded her head on over to where Puck had now moved onto the Ben & Jerry's ice cream counter. "I know you don't find him attractive, but him aside, is that the kind of body you'd like a boyfriend to have? With all that muscle and everything? Wouldn't you find that, I don't know... intimidating?"

"Well, maybe at first, but I'd see it more as protection. That a body like that would be able to protect me, seeing as mine is, well, really nothing," replied Kurt honestly. "And I suppose you could ask why don't I pack on the muscle? Protect myself. Gay men would take notice of me and find me more physically appealing, sounds like a good idea, but the truth is, that wouldn't be me. I wouldn't feel right with all that muscle on me, I'm not masculine enough to pull it off, it wouldn't suit me at all."

"So... you seek the physical attributes in men that you yourself don't have? Like opposites attract sort of thing?"

"I suppose so. I do find athletically built masculine men attractive."

"Even Puckerman's intimidating body?"

"It's not that intimidating Rachel, you should see Mr. Universe contenders."

"Ew, I hope he doesn't get any bigger. I've never been into jocks. Always preferred guys with slimmer bodies like... well like yours, Kurt," smiled Rachel as blue eyes widened back at her, eyes so glassy she could catch her own nodding head in those irises, one of the features she found attractive in him, for in her opinion, Kurt was very good looking, a real cutie pie, any boy would be lucky to have him on their muscled arm. "You're so slender, sweet and helpless, I just want hug you and kiss you."

"Thanks Rach, it's nice to see I have options," replied Kurt fondly, a smile decorating his fuller than full lips as he returned to his soda, his palms now damp from the miniscule water beads that traipsed down its sides, looking up at the food kiosk with taste buds now hungry for more sugar, craving it, the sticky syrup like taste of his cola not enough, he needed more. "Well, we better get going, Rach. The movie starts in a couple minutes, but you go on ahead, I'm just going to get some Raisinets."

Taking in Rachel's warning to keep his eyes trained to the ground in order to avoid the slideshow parade of grease on the screens above, both of them parted ways as Kurt headed towards the snack bar, no queue before the counter with only a teenaged cashier at the cash register. There he asked for Raisinets, Raisinets was what he was given and he handed his money with the admittedly pleasant 'ting!' like bell of the register finalizing the purchase, though this purchase was merely an excuse, one to gain a clearer vantage point of a certain ice cream counter a few meters away. So many flavors, so many of his own raisons covered in chocolate, now popping them one by one into his wet watering mouth as he observed from afar.

Sarah, Puck's younger sister, was bobbing on tip toes, arms outstretched with fingers wriggling for her ice cream tub, watching it impatiently descend as if on a platform that was the server's hand, right into her 'gimme gimme' grasp, her mother next to her now paying with Puck a little off to the left already digging into his, yet it was a gluttonous sight. Smears of Hot Fudge Sundae covered the jocks' ravenous mouth, spits of whipped cream had fallen onto his shirt and wife beater, and his ice cream tub was now nothing more than a swirling vortex of Vanilla Mango, White and Strawberry Truffle with Puck's plastic spoon mixing it all so vigorously it was close to snapping, 'crack!', a hungry child at work, a hungry man child, feeding.

However, with a head whipping up and scanning his surroundings, like a predator ready to fend off scavengers from his fresh kill, Puck caught sight of Kurt and froze. With wide hazel eyes locked onto the fair boy, fudge still around his mouth like a badly trimmed goatee, an overall mess, the jock was quick to observe as Kurt's amusement blossomed into a set of hushed giggles, baby like, his inviting lips only opening to pop in what looked like Raisinets. There was no mess around Kurt's perfect mouth, only on his own, and a napkin was soon employed to roughly remove the most of it, ripping apart on his unshaved stubble, dabbing at his stained clothes and failing to carry on through with eyes never leaving the vision that was loveliness.

Giggles of another kind were soon to join Kurt's, but these were so much closer with a greater number of them, all irritating, high pitched and squeaky with every withdrawal of breath. A group of perhaps four to five teenage girls, Kurt guessed all freshmans, had descended on the ice cream counter, not so much as to select their desired flavors and toppings, but to muffle their giggles, their flirtatious smiles and raking eyes as they showered Puck with gazes too lustful for mere children of their ages. Embodying him, objectifying him, eye-fucking him, the tall six foot hunk of a boy with fudge now drying on his chin, white cream in the corner of his mouth, Puck was the center of their attentions with Puck's, his platinum fleshed cheerleader.

Their positions appeared at first glance like a love triangle, oddly shaped, one that was incomplete. Kurt had no interest in the freshman girls and their slutty eyes, how they roamed places on the jock's body that were strictly Rated R. Puck rebuffed these attentions, perhaps not even aware of them, something Kurt was pleased to see. However, as the jock entered his own flirting ritual, now lifting his plastic spoon to his mouth and licking free its ice cream contents suggestively in his direction, only then did the chocolate raisins begin to go bad on Kurt's tongue. The girl's assorted giggles had subsided to look on over at who the jock was eating dirty to and Kurt was now left there, uncomfortable, as Puck's lapping tongue came out to play.

'Wanna fuck?' Came the blunt non-verbal question, the smirk, the wink, the arched brow, all at work to entice. 'Let me fuck you good, my sweet. Come on... come to me.' Inappropriate questions for such a public space, with Puck's family right there, the girls by the counter giving him odd looks right there, and himself right there, unsure on how to respond. The jock was pushing his seduction to a whole new level, moving on from words to the display of the physical, drawing on Kurt's sight to land on him rather than on his letters, yet it only had the fair boy recalling the letter he'd read just now, the proposal written in gold, the question for Kurt to now answer, all with Puck now enticing him to answer, answer! Oh, the invigorating lust.

**~ Beseeching Adonis ~**

_You do not understand Kurt, but I can't sleep. I can't breathe for thinking of you. Your face is before my eyes every waking second._  
 _I would even sacrifice my social status as McKinley's greatest badass that ever walked its halls for an hour to cradle you in my arms. I beg you sweet, to name some place where we can meet and_   _when, where I can prove you truly a devotion which is beyond common affection…_

Kurt had read it so many times he could recount every word, even the way they'd been written, a little sloppier than usual from a boy who'd hunched himself over a desk as passion had quivered his jittering pen, his loins burning from right under. Puck wanted them alone, just the two of them alone, no one else, and the jock's show before him was a teaser to it. Those carnal desires were strong, almost demanding with such potent hormones - the natural steroids to Puck's quenchless libido, yet Kurt remained unknowing. Was he to be tempted? To be scared? To imagine a great night Puck could give him, fair flesh dripping under tanned.  _Or should I continue to stand my ground against the affection express, steaming its way towards me…_


	21. Love

It was late afternoon in the late year for a high school football match, a home game, the final seasonal game on the William McKinley pitch. No longer was there sun to illuminate, to sizzle away with heat that had belonged in the summer. Instead the four floodlights situated on each corner of the pitch had been switched on, the artificial counterparts of the sun recreating 'day' at night, bathing the length of the pitch with a light so bright it burned the irises, reddening and swelling them, like the old fashioned Klieg lights of Golden Age Hollywood, blinding those in the bleachers, blinding the players themselves through their helmets as they battled for the winning touchdown, to get that ball, to run with it and to slam it down to the ground.

The McKinley Titans were not making out to be diplomatic. Shielded monsters they were, padded predators on the field. They had run onto their pitch, onto their territory with eyes that had been as red as their crimson uniforms and were handling the football as if it were a ball of flame, as if they could wield it with a vengeance in their stained fingerless gloves. Their bleacher fans and supporters were racketing on their feet, roaring for a McKinley win, one so desperately needed, and even though it was noticed by some that there were fewer of them, with so many benches left unoccupied, left cold, the significant decrease in attendance signaling a lack of belief that even the notion of a Titan win was unlikely, it had them roaring that much louder.

At the foot of the bleachers full of waving foam fingers, badly written banners and shirtless boys with 'McKinley Rules!' written on their chests, were the Cheerios, McKinley's cheerleading champions, their moral boosting chants and beckoning pelvises proving almost too sweeter eye candy for those around. Yet only limited edition flavors danced before them, an elite sub-group of the original cheerleading squad, comprised of ten members all handpicked by Sylvester, the best and the most experienced for only the most physically demanding of routines, ball busting choreography that went well beyond mere Liberty stunts, prep doubles and the showy use of confetti canons. It was Sylvester at her best, her most prized possession.

Kurt had not made the cut. Many of the remaining Cheerios hadn't, though unlike them, he didn't care. He was not bothered that the male lifters had been prioritized over him or that he was Sylvester's very own 'gay little pom-pom' for the main squad only. He freely admitted that he was not ready for the sub-group's intense ace like level, even when Quinn and Brittany had protested, both of them having been chosen themselves, yet it now afforded him time to rest his worn out body, to bathe in bathtubs full of blanched almonds, pine nuts, linseed, lemon peel, rose petals, marshmallow and lily bulbs, and to let himself unwind, as if Sylvester had allowed him time off, to purify himself, to beautify, just like his mother had done to him as a child.

However, if this was the case, what was the reason behind why Kurt was sitting in the bleachers, his body hunched against the cold with his feet up on the empty metal bench in front of him? His face wasn't exposed to steam from a searing hot bath, opening his pores, ridding him of his toxins and improving circulation that would leave his skin warmy hot to the touch with a healthy pink flush, but a light breeze down to a temperature that only dried it, made to crack his lips until they bled, to render him miserable. He had been a fool to be dragged out here. A dope! Guilt tripped, peer pressure, oh how it they were a set of heartless bitches to someone with a trusting looking face as his, one of youth and naivety with lips that only ever said, 'yes'.

Tina had brought him out here tonight, had been considerate enough to seat him down a couple of rows above the crowd on the bleachers and was cheering the Titans on with thorough zest, though Kurt was aware her eyes were fixed solely on one player, Mike Chang. There had been a long standing belief that the two were lovers, a voracious pair of wild sex, though how Jacob Ben Israel had managed to acquire such information, jump starting the rumor treadmill once again as only he could, Kurt didn't know, though he wouldn't put it past the result of Israel's harassing form of journalism and paparazzi like assault, that yes, brought drivel to his trashy blog like junk food to a hungry family, but only had him the next day as dumpster trash.

However, with 'woop!' like choruses, and breathy moans that had Kurt shuffling uncomfortably in his seat, it was evident Tina was not out to prove these rumors wrong. With every score the Titans would lay down against the opposing team, the pressure on her lips by her teeth would increase as Mike would untuck his jersey from his pants and lift it up like a winning soccer player would, revealing a torso with abs that were unmistakably defined, the skin glistening with rivulets of sweat, every single muscle highlighted in the wake of the harsh floodlights. For Tina, there would only be one Magic Mike, Mike Chang, waving up at her as she too would wave back, her hand shy with a nervous arm so weak it barely had it in the air.

With the blowing of the whistle, half-time was announced. The first half of the game had ended on its twenty-four minute run and the break had everyone sitting back down, conversation abound but low in volume as vocal cords recovered from forceful use. Kurt had been sat all this time, arms tightly wound around himself, legs together, though shivering, with his body having stored enough heat within itself to almost send him into a chilly sheltering muck of dreamless sleep, his plush panda hat now drooping lopsidedly to one side as he'd begun to lean perilously forward, his body falling slowly at an odd angle before his consciousness had been brought back to the game, a player-less pitch with now only cheerleaders upon its green pastures.

"Wow, we're doing well aren't we," smiled Tina, her gloved hands rubbing furiously together, blowing into them as if her lips were a pair of bellows stoking a fire. The winter cold had struck Lima rather unexpectedly with hooded jackets, woolly gloves and hats now the sensible fashion choices. For most it was unwelcome, whilst for others like Tina, it was a chance to bust out the cute winter wardrobe, fluffy bright colors that heavily contrasted the dismal backdrop of Lima's now withering weather.

"Mmm..." nodded Kurt, straightening himself up with fair hands now tinged pink, blood red around his fingertips, almost numb to the touch as if dying or dead, that now pulled his panda hat even further down his head, the long paws on either side now acting as a scarf as well as ear muffs as he wrapped them both around his exposed neck. He must have looked ridiculous although to Tina, it served to render him all the cuter, just a baby face poking out through white faux fur. "What's the score?"

"Fifteen us, five them. I think this may be the game we win."

"Tina, you don't have to feign interest in any of this. I know you're here for Mike."

"That's not true, I care about the Titans... it's just a coincidence that Mike's on the team is all."

"Yeah right. By the way he's always lifting his jersey up like that it's like a strip tease to you."

"Well he has the body to pull it off don't you think?" Smirked Tina rather boastfully, her eyes trained on Mike amongst all the other Titan players down below with their helmets removed, their limbs resting, and water free flowing from their bottles into their parched mouths, squeezing the containers, the clear liquid jetting down their throats. "I'm sorry, Kurt. I know you would have preferred staying home, but I didn't want to come out here all by self and none of the others would come with me."

"It's alright," sighed Kurt, surprised that Tina had managed to tear her eyes away from her crush to grant him that gift that was the apologetic look, one so irritating when not genuine. Then again a part of him felt as though he was doing the right time by being here, that even though he wasn't cheerleading, he'd had the spirit to come to support his school, even if a glum face with heavy eyelids that had wedged themselves shut with the cold had been the extent of this so called 'support'.

"Just think about it this way, Kurt. Now that you're not cheerleading, you're free to check out all the hot players, except Mike, he's my eye candy," smiled Tina, wagging her finger playfully, non threateningly, but with a hint of something in her dark eyes construed perhaps as a warning in all seriousness, one that had Kurt rethinking a dismissive move that was the classic eye roll. He wished to know what the deal was with these two, but he refrained from asking. He knew it was a matter of time.

"Oh you needn't worry about me, I'm too preoccupied with keeping myself warm than eying any player up," replied Kurt, now waving the comment off as he returned to snuggle himself, his feet shuffling in front of him yet with a wince now pinching the skin around his eyes. A headache was coming along, born from the cold. The lining inside his plush hat wasn't providing enough warmth. He needed something quick. "I'm going to get myself some water. All this cold air is making my mouth dry."

"Oh, could you get me some too. I'm a little thirsty," said Tina, watching as Kurt rose groggily onto his feet, a weak support of a body with limbs that seemed to creak, the boy doll with joints too cold they'd snap if forced, its arm almost pulled from its socket as Tina latched on. "Kurt wait, if this turns out as an excuse to bail on me, I swear I will come at you with a needle and paralyze your face with juices fresh from the jaws of the Anaconda... that or I just won't talk to you for couple days."

"Don't worry, I'll come back. I would have suggested you come with so that we stay in the school until half-time ends, but then I remembered it's not that much warmer in there than it is here so... yeah... can I go now?" Asked Kurt as Tina loosened her tight grasp on his arm. With him now upright, he could feel the blood rushing around his body, as if it had been lying still in his veins all this time, frozen in internal tubes, resembling those in a cryogenic laboratory, cold, always cold. "I'll be back."

Shuffling along the isle with feet near to tripping, Kurt joined the stairs and began to make his way down. From such a high vantage point, nothing on the pitch was invisible, one could see everything and the further he descended, the less luxurious was the sight, no longer in the seat with a view, the loge box of an opera house, but in the stalls where everything was now on ground level, the craning of the neck the only tool for elevated vision. Yet it wasn't as if Kurt was looking for anyone in particular, stepping off the bleachers and onto the firm ground below where his eyes were quick to betray him, flicking over to the sitting Titans a few meters away, how concentrated they looked, even with the Cheerios right in front of them, dancing.

Mutants these dancers appeared to be. Mutant strains of a Cheerio, more powerful and more agile than the original, with the head cheerleader leading them on. Everyone of these girls as well as the boys were out to impress, to flirt with someone, as if Sylvester had put them up for sale, with the head cheerleader again tempting the highest bidder. Santana had already chosen who would take her home, who would slip her out of her uniform and bang her mercilessly. It could be seen in her eyes, her pupils, slit like, pinpointed to the face - the jock she wanted, wished for. Yet even in the midst of the dance, her over-exertion, her forced moves, only hinted at desperation, at unrequital. Whoever this boy was, he did not want her back.

Or perhaps he did. Kurt would not blame him if he did, for personality aside; Santana was without a doubt a breathtaking beauty. She was in great form; boasted flawless caramel colored skin, had the smoldering sexuality of a crouched Bengal tiger and was renowned for her rich variety of sweet moves in the bedroom as if she was the fiery jewel of Mumbai. For many, she was the sexiest girl in the school. Boys never looked at anyone else if they could look at her, for she was the center of attention wherever she went, the center of attention even when she wasn't around, kept alive and very much present behind the bedroom doors of teenage boys, her figure dancing in their minds as they jacked off, jacked off and jacked off.

Kurt would forever be envious of such beauty. The exotic look of olive, the smell of the tropics, tanned skin itself. Forever had he withheld such a fair complexion, skin so akin to alabaster, it had been asked in the past if he even had pores, like the Malibu doll he'd been to his mother as a child, an androgynous child, the love child of Hermaphroditus and the naiad Salmacis. A voice of high pitch, eyes of the water, with a soft-sculpted body, feminine, features in a male only ever ridiculed by others, compliments nonexistent, yet he could remember his first, one that hadn't come from his parents, but from his Kindergarden teacher, olive skinned, black hair with a pursed smile, "you're  _beautiful_ , Kurt," she'd said, as he had smiled, "and I  _hate_  you."

The jock that now sat right in line with Santana, his helmet off, his muscled shoulders padded and his handsome face sleek with perspiration, had dated her once before. It had not ended well. Tumultuous. Kurt had been there. Yet here danced the Latina, parading herself as if she was the finest piece of meat on the bloody rack, freshly cut and ready to be eaten. It was sickening. She had no self respect. A slut. A fucking  _slut_. One that would do anything to get the jock back in her arms, to grab him, start pounding on his chest, hitting his arms, scratching his face. ' _You're **mine**!_ ' She would scream, ' _you **bastard**_!' She'd hurt him if she had to. Fuck 'boosting moral' and fuck the Cheerios. She'd dominate this jock until there was nothing left.

A couple of meters away stood the fair boy, rooted to the spot and watching the interaction as if he were watching someone's downfall, one so accelerated it had him near to weeping. Both Quinn and Brittany had noticed him from their positions on the field and were smiling at him, now dancing for him, their boy, their Kurt, though left unnoticed. Kurt's mouth had gotten drier through every passing minute, his eyes themselves drier from not blinking, yet as he made to turn, he was captured in hazel eyes. The jock was looking at him and could see everything. He would see his heart beating against his breastbone, life vibrating inside, on the brink of breaking out. He would swear the fair boy's skin was translucent. Kurt.  _Baby_.

Turning the bleacher's hazardous metal corner, Kurt made his way into the school, its halls somewhat more constricting with walls that appeared to close in on him with only its safety lights on, providing little illumination as a guide. Yet it was enough to return outside with two slushies, both acquired from the darkened cafeteria, no water bottles on sight, no cups either, just beverages that had the risk of brain freezing, ice cold drinks sure to render him even colder in the midst of such a chill. A bad choice, but Kurt was so thirsty, flavored Cherry syrup so cold! So sweet and soft on the tongue, one that didn't manage beyond the second suck, for on his way back to the bleachers, he was yanked under them, his throat too cold to scream.

"Let go of me!" Gasped Kurt, the hands on his hips now encircling his waist, almost lifting him off the ground, his legs flailing as if they were floppy and boneless, his feet in desperate search of the dusty earth underneath, now stained with the splattered juices of his two slushies, the cherry like blood, gushing. He was so scared. It was so dark and metal support beams of the bleachers were everywhere, coming out at him like razor sharp swords swinging to behead. "Let me go! Let g-"

"Kurt, it's only me... it's me," whispered his man handler, shifting himself in direction with a floodlight beam poking through the bleachers until his face was revealed, a profile with shadows scarring his appearance. It was the jock, the knight in football armor, Kurt's 'Dark Prince', holding onto a fair boy with a hand over his heart. Those blown blue eyes had pupils so wide like an animal's in fear, it was a clear sign not to touch him, but the jock was touching him, holding him. Kurt.

"Puck, you have got to stop jumping on me like this. It scares me, you could have been anyone," whispered Kurt harshly, anger coursing through him as Puck apologized with a weak ' _sorry_ ', yet energy for its maintenance did not last long. The sudden shock had drained him and with his slushy bleeding on the floor, his mouth still dry and his body fighting for warmth, all he could do was sigh. "Just say my name or something and I'll come, alright. It's... it's not like I don't like talking to you."

"I like talking to you too," smiled Puck tenderly, his muscled arms making quick work of bringing Kurt into him, the heat of the game in his clothes, warming the fair boy up to a point where he had now snuggled right into the jock, ignoring the tackle dented shoulder pads and fitted armor, he was like a pale cub to hot fur, now safe. "I like holding you like this, in my arms, real close... like this. Just makes me think everything I write in my letters could happen... you're still getting my letters right?"

"Yes. I keep every single one in my bedside drawer. Even the envelopes."

"And have you um... have you had to time to um... think of the last one? You know... our meeting?"

"... I have... but Puck I think it's too soon to-"

"Please Kurt, I don't know how much longer I write these letters. They  _mock_  me with the things I can't have."

"Oh... well if they're doing that to you, then I'm not going to ask to do this anymore. It wouldn't be fair on you to draw this out," muttered Kurt apologetically. These letters were supposed to be to some extent, cathartic for Puck. They were to provide psychological relief through the open expression of his strong emotions, causing the cathartic release, but maybe this wasn't relief anymore, perhaps it was only emotional torture, the idiom of the carrot and stick approach now coming to mind.

"No, no, it's okay Kurt, I'll keep writing them. I know you're into all this romance stuff and if it makes you happy then I guess it's a good way of letting you know of my feelings to you," insisted Puck, hands tightening around Kurt, his hands almost scrunching into a clump the boy's knitted jumper at the small of his back, so small above a spine so strong. "I just thought us alone together, not here like this, but alone somewhere away from everyone would let you know that much further."

"And by alone together you'd mean..." began Kurt, trailing away on a question with an answer so obvious. Sex. Puck meant sex. Inner or outer course, it didn't matter. The jock only asked for just one great night, or as many nights as Kurt would allow. In a bedroom, in a bed, naked where his pale form would lay spent with his loose limbs entwined in sheets tussled from lovemaking. Kurt would be Natalia's Summer's successor, the same fuck, but with feelings. How would that be like?

"Yeah baby... yeah," nodded Puck, a firm nod with a firm thrust, as if supporting such a clear confirmation with his hips would leave Kurt without a doubt in the knowing, though the jock was aware the boy had had an idea in the first place. Such naivety could not exist at such an age at McKinley, no matter how cute Puck suspected Kurt's innards to be, just a boy filled with jelly. "We could go as far as you like, but far enough for it to be a step forward. Come on Kurt, what do you say?"

"Whilst I appreciate the offer Puck, I'm not ready for... that, especially with someone I don't know how I feel about yet. It wouldn't be fair on either of us," replied Kurt, guilty that he wasn't rewarding Puck with anything after all the boy had written him. "The letters are good for now, and... if you think about it, its foreplay, just a romantic take on it, and you know how I love romance, and... if the time comes and we find ourselves alone then... it could happen, but not now. Just... not now."

"Okay..." replied Puck solemnly, his head lowering, his chin almost coming to slump on his protruding chest, one armored to the bone but shrinking from under, as if it were losing faith, until it was restored with a fair finger. It came up to trace his stubbled jawline, raising his chin, his lips now cushioned with a sweet kiss, wholesome, that gave him all the breath he needed to leave his lungs shuddering, his mouth agape with stuttered words. "Whoa... w-what was... what was that for?"

"Something to keep you going."

"Does this mean we can kiss now? Even if you're not ready for... other stuff?"

"Well I wanted to kiss your helmet for luck, but since you don't have it with you I had to make do with your lips."

"So... we can't kiss now?"

"Puck that kiss was only meant to hold you over for the rest of the game, and maybe your letters, but I guess exceptions can be made for now-" Kurt's words were now muffled. He couldn't speak for Puck had brought him in for his own kiss, one of passion, so less haste like than Kurt's had been. Open mouth, tongue, French, with muscled arms all over him, strong hands all over him, ending in doggy pants that had the jock reeling with a smile. "Now go win that match you big strong Titan you."

The whistle for the second-half sounded and in the next moment, Kurt was left alone under the bleachers with a small smile, one that hurt to give even to himself upon lips now so puffy, the shade of red lipstick badly wiped off, work of the jock, who'd escaped to his pitch, his ground, his territory, also with a smile on his face. Kurt liked Puck, and he'd had to let him know, just like his father had said, for 'encouragement'. A kiss before a kickoff had been his way of showing it, his personal take on 'boosting moral', tying the ribbon, his 'favor', around the Dark Prince's lance before going in for the Joust. Such a comparison had Kurt shivering with delight, but not from the cold. The cold could go fuck itself. He was warm now, as warm as could be.

Turning around, Kurt made his way through the maze of metal support beams, careful not to trip, until he was out. The carcasses of his strewn slushies were dead, amongst trash that others had left behind. Candy wrappers, a WMHS foam finger with the pointing index finger missing, ripped off judging by the teeth marks present and used condoms, broken and leaking. There was no point salvaging his beverages form such a graveyard. Half of their contents were already poisoning the ugly brown blackened grass underneath with its high sugar content, yet it was with these drinks he'd been meaning to return with. Tina was going to ask questions if he were to return empty handed, but then again, he wasn't thirsty anymore.

Kurt re-entered the pitch and looked around, eyes keen for the differences in view. The Cheerios had since ended their impressive performance, with them now resting where the Titans had been, whilst the Titans themselves now grouped on the other side of the pitch, huddled together in what appeared to be a pep talk, their Coach, Shannon Beiste, wearing an expression of war. "Let's beat the living shit out of these mother fuckers!" Kurt could hear her shouting, loudly, her fists pounding into her coarse palms as if she were laying into thick dough, "Let's win this thing!" "Yeah!" was how her team replied, their helmets nodding so profusely, it was as if they had spring for necks, a team of bobble heads, fleshly shaken, smacked.

Now they disbanded, now they were scattering out across the field, assuming their positions, hunched, with the studs in their shoes denting the cold hard ground below. Yet one player was slow to uptake his own post on the field when the sight of a familiar panda hat came into view. By the bleacher stairs, fair hands clasped in front, blue eyes wide. The sight had memories of the day Kurt had fallen during the Cheerios routine, injured with a bloody nose and aided to his feat only to see Puck staring at him on the pitch, staring at him now, halted in his tracks. His teammates looked on, fearing they'd lost him again to distraction, to a girl, but it wasn't a girl, it was a boy, one in a panda hat so damned cute, Puck could hardly stand it.

The leer of Santana's teeth shone from afar. Kurt could feel them on his neck, cutting into his fair skin, drawing blood. They resembled piercing fangs of venom in the harsh bask of the floodlight than actual human dentures. She was looking on like a leper, her dark bottomless eyes narrowed, now wincing as her crimson acrylic nails came to dig deep into her palm, drawing her own blood. This was now the second time. Kurt was here and Puck had his eyes on him like he'd had before, like he'd always had. She couldn't stand it. Walking up to the fair boy and landing him a blow would do nothing. The blood would not distract and it would not repulse. Puck would always look him, always like that, like 'LOVE', but her, look at her like 'WHORE'.

The panda hat atop Kurt's head now slid off, only by the work of a light tug. There he shook his hair free from its flattened state, allowing it to fall around his face, no longer static or disheveled but now boasting its Chamoisee shade, rendered even lighter in the overpowering floodlights. It had his eyes even younger looking, but sexy, with lips puckered into a pout, put on or perhaps still puffy from an earlier smooch, it couldn't have been determined, but it didn't matter. From such a face was born the most delightful smile Puck had ever seen. It was heavenly, one that had been fashioned for this very moment. A smile upon the cutest skin, reaching those oceanic eyes that twinkled, mistaken for welling, as if Kurt were weeping for joy.

Backing up and making his way up the stairs, Kurt extended that smile for a few more collective seconds, before turning his head and making his way back up to his seat, his panda hat hanging loosely from his hands with the ears dangling to the floor, trailing along the dusty ridden metal, like a child returning indoors after playtime. Up and up those stairs he climbed, nauseatingly high on those bleachers and rejoining Tina on one of the highest tiers. 'Yet it was as if he didn't want to be up there, trudging away like that. He knew Puck was still watching him, pleading, ' _don't go_ ,' ' _come back_ ', begging with hazel eyes hidden behind a visor for that smile again, that smile _, 'smile for me',_  to which Kurt turned around and looked at him.

In this moment, something changed. Both of them knew it, and were aware of it. Very much so. Kurt, now looking at Puck, could see one of his teammates marching up behind him, dust rising from their stomping feet, grabbing him harshly by the shoulders and shoving him into position, shouting and cursing at him, hitting his chest, his helmet, wanting to hurt him, to get his head in the game. This match could not be lost! The Titans had to win! McKinley had to win! Throughout the light assault, Puck stumbled, almost lost his balance and fell, but he recovered to a point of standing, coming to return his gaze to that fair boy on the bleachers, even with the whistle now shrill in the air, the game beginning with a motionless player, still and silent.

Boom! Boom! BOOM! Puck's heart felt like it was almost trying to beat itself out from his chest, from its restraints and tear through his rib cage. It was getting larger and larger and he was finding it harder and harder to breathe. He was slumping, now doubling over with his hand shooting to his heart so out of control, his fingers gripping into his jersey. Oh fuck, this hurt! It physically and emotionally hurt. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see people shooting him looks of worry and concern, some pointing at him, whispering, ' _what's wrong with him?_ ' ' _Is he having a heart attack or something?_ ' ' _Why is he holding his heart like that?_ ' They didn't understand. His heart was the one muscle in him changing, now evolving by the work of a  _smile_.

He shifted himself to look at those bleachers, up all those rows of metal benches to see Kurt... to see no one. The boy was pelting down the stairs, his panda hat long left to fall on the descent. His fair features that had once harbored that smile were now painfully contorted into a look of distress, of fear. He was running to him, the football game all around them, but still running, now slowing as Puck's face broke out into a smile, for the pain was receding, letting forth a pleasurable feeling akin to a potent drug rush, one of adrenaline, dopamine, the chemicals permeating through his body, his bloodstream alive with it. Now he knew, as his aggrandized beating melted down into the most praised and celebrated emotion in the world.

He was in love.

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

The Titans won. They had won! With a gloved hand that had swiftly brought the ball down beyond that white line in the form of a violent body slam, the McKinley Titans had scored the winning touchdown to thunderous cheers and applause, so thunderous the bleachers had swayed slightly, creaking, almost screeching in protest, veering itself from left to right with those having perched themselves at the top holding onto their seats with white hands. Helmets had been in the air like battered graduation caps, the players themselves had had a case of jumping feet, and the happy hour had been upon them all, especially on their star scorer, the boy of the hour, the boy everybody had wished to touch with fisted ' _fuck yeah!'_  hands.

That had been a week ago, or close to a week, Kurt didn't really know. The days had felt as if they had been fitted together in a seamless blur, a swift blur that had had him in the center with his attentions elsewhere, thoughts of Puck having consumed him, for Puck was the boy of the hour, acclaimed for lifting McKinley out of its losing streak and into a champagne spraying victory that everyone had celebrated with Spring Break energy. All eyes were on him, in admiration and lust, the works. People were always around him. Boys wanted to be him, girls wanted to be with him, the name Noah Puckerman was the favorite tasting name on everyone's tongues, engraved on a silver trophy shield. Mmm, ' _Noah Puckerman_ ', our winner.

However, despite the careening haze of celebratory parties warmed by quality beer and creamy breasts, a buoyant landscape of alcohol and music glimpsed from, for instance, a roller coaster, no one knew what Puck knew, of a good luck kiss born from the womb of the bleachers, or how his heart had thumped, boomed him to realization, the latter having given him unexplainable energy to win the game, a secret not even sweet Kurt was aware of. Yet Kurt was aware of nothing and never had their social circles following their win appear so far set. Even in Cheerio status, the fair boy was estranged from Puck in every way, except one - his love letters, that never failed to reach him, never half-hearted letters, but always from the heart.

As it was, Kurt was at Quinn's, a sleepover with Brittany. All of them were pajama clad and snug, with the numerous lamps in the room giving off a golden hazy glow, as if like miniature fires that only gave off wasted heated energy. This was one of the many sleepovers that the blonde had invited him to. Truth or Dare, eating raw cookie dough and harmless experimentation with lesbianism were ripe activities that they would often engage in, no matter how stereotypical it was, yet what was brought before Kurt tonight was a thick photo album, an intricate scrapbook lookalike detailing through a photographic montage both Quinn and Brittany's freshman year at McKinley, a cute patchwork like timeline from their first day to their last.

With the turning of each page, each one weighed down and creaky at the spine as if they hadn't been turned for some time, a running commentary from both blondes helped add context to each photo. Every single one had been taken with either a disposable camera, a fisheye camera, or a Polaroid, all vintage and all taken by analogue, with no digital film seen at all, just what Quinn prefered, being the Lomography fan that she was. It was an expensive hobby seeing as every one of the candy colored cameras she owned (five in total) hadn't been priced below forty pounds, not including the rolls of film itself, but she'd loosened her purse strings on a family visit to Carnaby Street in Lomo-crazy London and had gone crazy herself. Very crazy.

A keen smile on Kurt's lips appeared on mention of the fights Quinn would have with her parents when she'd run out of film. She'd wear them down with talk of how the cameras she'd bought would go to waste, that they'd just stand there collecting dust on a high shelf with no film inside them to bring them to life. It was all very amusing until with the turn of a page, photos that held within their grainy, flare filled depths emerged the face of a boy - Puck. Tanned, with a little mohawk sprouting atop the head of a hooligan, Kurt took note of how  _young_  the jock looked, the rascal like smile, mischief in the eyes, a teacher's nightmare with considerably less muscle mass than today but still built broadly for a sixteen yeah old, then a baby man child.

At this, the audio commentary seemed to pick up with freshly fueled energy, both Quinn and Brittany high on enthusiastic charge and now taking it in turns to recount stories of Freshman misbehavior, pranks of a Puckerman style, a list deemed never to end. Yet Kurt, ever the good listener (a trait girls had always favored him for), sat neatly on the quilted bed with legs crossed and a smile atop his beaming lips, occasional O like shapes forming at the sound of antics that were not hard to believe, and what with the photo album providing somewhat of a visual aid, that handsome yet no good face, with that sexy lopsided smile, almost goofy looking at times, always there in the odd snap, never had a bedtime story been so impelling.

"Britt, do you remember the time when he poured sand in Ms. MacDonald's sandwich? Oh! Or that one time when he replaced all the water in the fish tank with coffee to see if they would get high off of it and swim faster?" Smiled Quinn, wincing when only now recalling how upset Brittany had been over the latter, for of course they hadn't lived on. Both goldfishes had been nothing but bobbing carrot shaded corpses upon a tank of too stronger coffee by the time of their discovery. Poor things.

"That was just mean. What he did to Mr. & Mrs. Yum-Yum was really cruel. They were on their honeymoon!" Moaned Brittany morosely, her body deflating into a slump, the palm of Kurt's hand gently working along her spine as she straightened up once more, yet only to reveal a face fully marred with grief. "I married them. Do you remember, Q? And I bought them that fish tank castle so both of them could live happily ever after and have lots and lots of baby Yum-Yum's and Yum-Yum juniors."

"I know, Britt, I know. What Puck did, it was bad."

"Their wedding was so beautiful. Do you remember it?"

"Britt, you made me dress as a bridesmaid, so yeah, I remember it."

"Well it had to be real. They weren't going to get hitched Vegas style."

"No, you only fed them Ben & Jerry's Fish Food as a stand in for their wedding cake following a ceremony you conducted in Hindu because you couldn't find a picture of any other deity in the shape of a fish except for the Matsya avatar of the God Vishnu to hang above the tank," explained Quinn matter of factly, now facing Kurt and smiling at his eruption of melodious giggles. "We kinda ignored that she wasn't licensed to do this because, well you know, she was marrying two gold fishes."

"Well there is quite a significant difference between getting married married and sixth grade married. It's all fun and laughs, but it's never seriou- I'm sorry, I'm sorry Britt, I didn't mean that," hurried Kurt as the blonde eyed him with irises flurry with irritation, about to protest, for the sanctity of marriage to Brittany was for anyone and everyone, just as long as true love was there in the mix. "I'm sure the marriage you conducted was legitimate in the eyes of the great... Hindu man fish God."

"You should have seen the funeral. It was just as ridiculous," whispered Quinn to Kurt as she went in search for her bottled water. "Because the marriage was conducted in Hindu, Britt wanted to do the same for the funeral, you know, for continuity reasons. So we had plans to cremate both 'Mr. & Mrs. Yum-Yum' on a pyre made from twigs in the backyard, but when it came to actually burning them, Lord Tubbington had already ripped open the plastic bag we were keeping them in and ate them."

"Yeah, I grounded him for a  _very_  long time," confirmed Brittany, letting loose an out of control round of nods as Kurt listened on. "But I cared more about Mr. & Mrs. Yum-Yum. I know that both their souls were in Lord Tubbington, but when they came out, I was always scared they'd never enter goldfish heaven because they would smell bad, like really bad, since like, Lord Tubbington wasn't eating well at the time. Just gone off melted cheese and crunchy crouton left overs from Fondue for Two."

"What's Fondue for Two?"

"Oh, it's my internet talk show with melted cheese. You should totally guest sometime!"

"Okay, um, what would we talk about?"

"I don't know yet, but maybe gossip, guilty pleasures or... tastes in boys."

"And a word of warning Kurt, don't eat the cheese dip. Believe me it's just as bad fresh as it is gone off," voiced Quinn from the foot of the bed, her sentence thrown away amidst the rustling of her bag, the light jingling of loose coins, the thump of a heavy text book, all muffled kerfuffle that had both Kurt and Brittany peering at the top of her golden head before she shot up in frustration only to knock Kurt's own school bag from its perch on the bed. "Oh! Oops, sorry... hey, what are these?"

Quinn rose from crouched knees, her bottled water falling to the ground with a thump, the water swishing inside, now with colored items in her hands, pretty from afar. Yet Kurt was quick to recognize such prettiness - red envelopes, golden seals, his name written on every single one as if ratting him out, all of them fanned out in Quinn's hand, now brought in for a closer look, one of scrutinized inspection. Such curiosity, such deep perusal had Kurt frozen, but with a body that wished to lurch forward and snatch back what rightly belonged to him, hidden in the depths of his own privacy. Even the ruby red envelopes themselves had only ever had his fingerprints as well as Puck's on their quality surfaces. Now third party oils had landed.

Almost wrestling to gather control of his limbs, to force them into action, Kurt slid off the bed and made his way over to Quinn, making quick work of taking the letters out of her hands with as must politeness as possible, a '"they're nothing, just some letters" offering both blondes little explanation, but peaking their interests at the sight of his flustered state, the wringing of his hands, the eyes too shy to meet and hold. He was hiding something, yet Kurt had very good reason to. He would never divulge. He could never betray Puck's trust. He respected Puck. It had him returning the letters into his bag, yet his wrist was caught in a clamp like hold that loosened his grip, allowing some letters to fall to the ground, their corners now dented, blunt.

Quinn retracted her hand guiltily, muttering a soft "sorry _"_ , before crouching down once again to retrieve the dropped letters. The fair hand outstretched in front of her was quick to indicate their swift return, for Kurt wanted it back, yet the blonde couldn't help but keep on to one, the last one. It was so beautiful. Her weakness for beautiful things was strong, like an addiction, holding this envelope with its golden calligraphy and seal was feeding this addiction. The need to capture its beauty by analogue photography was palpitating. This was a delicacy of a letter, a kind not often seen on days that did not belong to St. Valentine's. Oh God, she could sense it now. Inside this envelope was a delirium of passion, crazed yearning.

"Are these... love letters, Kurt?" Asked Quinn quietly, her words spoken so slowly it was as if she was speaking english for the first time, afraid to voice any grammatical mistakes, yet for Kurt, such a question now left him no choice but to confirm with a nodding 'yes', that had both Quinn and Brittany letting out a round of gasps, light feminine squeals of delight with eyes that twinkled to learn of this hidden development, one juicy as fuck secret. "Oh my God, who's been writing you these?"

"I um... I don't know. He just goes by 'The Dark Prince'."

"Mmm, sexy for a pen name. How long has this 'Dark Prince' of yours been writing to you?"

"It's been nearly a month, and he just leaves them in my way so I can't catch him."

"And what does he write to you about?"

"Well, you know, just normal love letter stuff, his feelings for me, things like that, but he'll alternate between writing me letters and poems depending on how he feels I guess," replied Kurt, shrugging, both Quinn and Brittany's faces appearing to soften like melting wax. The sheer romance in the word 'poem' and in this context. Oh how charming was this 'Dark Prince'. "It's sort of flattering really. The first person who's got a crush on me that I'm aware of and they're writing me love letters."

"Would you mind if Britt and I took a look at them? We swear we'll be careful with them, won't we Britt," assured Quinn, fixing Brittany with a pointed look, a  _cross my heart, hope to die_  soon etching itself across the ditzy blonde's chest as her words of promise, a promise from a child of two or three years, soon had Kurt handing over his letters, five in total. The rest were at home, these were recent ones, all from this week and all signed by the 'Dark Prince'. "Does anybody else know about these?"

"Apart from my dad, no, and he didn't have to ask what they were to know what they were," smiled Kurt, Quinn raising her eyes to offer him one of her own as both she and Brittany spent around a minute awing down at the each envelope, tracing their fingers on the pattern of the golden seals several times, three to four, Kurt did not know for sure. "I've just been sure to keep them all at home and I was going to put these ones away with the rest but I haven't had time to organize my bag."

"Oh but Kurtie, this is just too cute," giggled Brittany, her fingers teasing the flap of the envelope, as if drawing out the opening process, now torturing Kurt into a desperate decision. He'd merely handed the letters over so that the pretty packaging could be admired but delving deep into its bowls, that was where Kurt drew the line, one that appeared to fade when both his friends were so eager. "Wow, people just don't do this anymore. You have to show us the rest sometime."

"I don't know, Britt. I'm already being bad enough as it is for showing you two these."

"Why? Doesn't your 'Dark Prince' want anybody else to see what he's written?"

"I would have thought so, yes. Love letters are just that much more personal."

"Oh... I guess we shouldn't read them then. Would do you think, Q?"

"Kurt's right, we shouldn't read them," agreed Quinn, nodding, piling all five letters in her hands and stroking them free from any loose bits that were on them, but nothing was on them. They were pristine as the day they'd been sent, as rich in red as the shade of nail polish on the blonde's well manicured nails. She didn't want to let them go, for no doubt the prettiness on the inside would be just as pretty as the outside. "Then again, what 'The Dark Prince' doesn't know won't hurt him, will it."

"Quinn," began Kurt warningly, rounding the bed post and nearing her position on the comforter only to find her shuffling closer to Brittany, both of them pouting their fleshy pink bottom lips in a juvenile way, an image that suited them both, puppy inspired, cute as bonbons but yet he remained adamant to see that what Puck had written remained unseen by anyone else but him. Would they even understand or handle the Dark Prince's emotions? Would they tease Kurt for it? "Q, I really don't-"

"Oh come on, Kurt. You have to share this with us, we're you're girlfriends. This is big," encouraged Quinn as Kurt frowned. "You're the only out boy at McKinley which makes it that much harder for you to find someone, and on top of that, you've said that even if there was someone, they wouldn't go for you because they would find too 'girly'. Well here's the proof that there is someone, and that he doesn't care that you're feminine. It probably turns him on, who knows. Please let us have a look."

It was a number of seconds before Kurt let out a sigh, one that neither indicated permission or a rejection, before a breathy ' _fine_ ' was uttered into the air. He lay there at the foot of the bed in semi supine, his hands on his chest, with his ears pricked with the rustle of paper, how each letter was gently removed from their envelopes and made to unfold in front of eager eyes. He wasn't proud of himself for doing this, for giving into peer pressure, but the way Quinn's eyes would skim across each line, the way Brittany would mouth the words like a child learning to read, and the way both of them would mutter aloud words of, "my God, this is beautiful", "Q, you have to see what he's written here _"_ , it had him reassured. It had him smiling in pleasure.

**.**

_**Heaven's Bassinet**_

_Baby's breath floated down, soft and pure,_   
_It hit the bed, porcelain white,_   
_White, so white, it reminded me of you_   
_You always were the innocent angel…_ **  
**

**.**

_**Seventh Paradise**_

_He has written his heart down on these pages,_   
_now he craves to devote his body to his sweet_   
_He writes with a trembling hand full of loyalty and faithfulness_   
_that he aspires with the hope that his bed shall soon be warm…_

**.**

_**My Bed Babe**_

_Your body is blonde all over, as if you powdered it on_   
_Simple, yet self-displaying as a peacock in the wake of the great noontide_   
_there are no words, just dreamy kisses on sticky sheets, the taste of honey_   
_and your lovelorn woebegone eyes heat mine own. Such beauty, an endless rapture._   
_For you came to be loved hard, I go deeper, you came to be fucked hard, I go faster_   
_you came, you came for me, my bubba, Kurt Hummel, my sweetest high…_

**.**

The content of these letters and poems had deepened. Kurt was very much aware of it. No longer was it light fluff talk, but talk that appeared more mature, that stirred Kurt's soft belly with its language, how it manipulated crass words like 'fucking' into literary beauties. The rhythm of the poems were also all over the place, like the skipping beat of the heart, the signaling of a feeling, for ever since the Titan win, Puck had gone wild in his letters. No tedious stream of drafts were written for this latest batch. Kurt could feel it. The jock had penned down what he'd had to say onto paper as if time were of the essence, with pressure hard enough on the pen to make it snap, to almost burst its gooey golden ink and drown out his words.

Looking over at his two friends, Kurt was quick to note their expressions. Whilst Brittany retained an 'aww' like look, a look a child might pull when observing a baby koala nibbling on a eucalyptus branch, Quinn's facial muscles had twisted into a frown. Her eyes never once strayed from the letters, but her brow only deepened, a look of examination, puzzlement, and study bringing her features closer together. She couldn't help but take in this writing. The Dark Prince wrote as if he knew Kurt's body, in and out, as if the prince had seen his cheerleader naked. Such a clear picture of Kurt he had written, almost painted, the words were of a masterpiece, conjuring Kurt's beauty as a work of Botticelli in her head. This was more than a crush...

"Kurt, what do you think whoever's writing these letters feels for you?" Asked Quinn, her voice serious, austere even in tone that had Kurt almost shrinking back as if he were a child too over its own head to understand what had been written for them. "Look here, in this letter here, he implies you are his Adonis, his God of beauty and desire. In this letter, he claims he is 'left to the touch of his hand' for thoughts of you, and in this one here, he writes he'll 'sacrifice' his heart to you. His  _heart_."

"I know what they say Q, I've already read them all," dismissed Kurt, now unappreciative that they were now analyzing and discussing these letters, these knotty little poems. To him the lines opened up another, and then another, it was like a fairy-tale riddle leading him in, a revelation, for poetry was just compression, the soul's shorthand. Morse code in a way, dipped in romance and sex. "I just don't know what you're trying to say. You're being almost as cryptic as Pu... 'The Dark Prince'.

"I'm saying that all these letters, and I'm pretty sure this goes for the rest back at home, couldn't have come about from some lame school boy crush," replied Quinn, brandishing the letter in her hand. "Seriously Kurt, puppy love couldn't have written this. The best they can do is go as far as torn up pieces of paper with a scribbled 'I like you' on the front that's almost always illegible. What you have here is a gold mine. You can't sit there and tell me you're not picking up on the obvious."

"Quinn, what are you getting at?"

"He's in love with you, stupid!"

"What?"

"Kurt, this boy, this 'Dark Prince' of yours, whoever he is, is in love with you."

"In love? He can't be, that's not possible," denied Kurt, snatching the letter out of Quinn's hand, almost paper cut inducing. He wasn't even going about being polite anymore; the need to reread the evidence overpowering him, for Puck just couldn't be in love with him. As if proposing marriage on the second date, it was too soon. Yet, there was the evidence in writing. Love. Despite Kurt's overruled objection. Guilty as charged. "He's in love with me... he's... oh my God, he's in love with me."

Allowing the letter to fall onto the patchwork quilt below, Kurt's body appeared to slump, a body that wished to fall and lie motionless amongst the embroidery of apple orchards and fruit below. He didn't know what to make of this. A part of him had anticipated it of course, they were love letters after all, and the verbal signs from Puck himself had not gone unheard, his first poem having been entitled 'LOVE' and what he'd said right afterwards, ' _Relax Kurt, I'm not there_ ** _yet_** ', now taunting the many centers of his brain. It was almost as if the jock had planned to fall in love with him, as if now that he was in love, Kurt would have no choice but to accept him, or otherwise risk breaking a boy's heart with a knuckle-dusting fist thirsty for bleeding love.

Just the thought of being played this way angered Kurt. Oh how Puck had been clever. Stealing Kurt's control by placing himself as the lovesick victim, the writer who'd meant to seduce, falling into his own trap. Yet it had been Kurt who'd set him up for this. Love letter corresponding, it had been Kurt's idea. This wasn't of his manipulative handiwork was it? He'd believed Puck's feelings to be of minimal levels, at least in stable condition, set not to waver beyond a crush, but no doubt like when the jock was young at age eight, writing his Christmas list for Santa, tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth with a childlike lack of self-consciousness, desire for what he'd wanted, what he asked for now, could not have been stronger.

What did Puck know about love? What did any of them know about the emotion, they were just kids! Naive minded and youthfully ignorant little runts with bodies that were still developing. Only a few years ago, girls in Kurt's year had begun 'filling out' their boyish flat chests, how every one of them had marveled at themselves in the mirror, how the nipples would get hard like brown fleshed goosebumps, whilst the boys had stared, flicked even played with their 'things', 'cocks', 'pricks' - ropy little sausages between their legs that would get hard, hot and moist. Love to them was like alcohol, illegal at their measly little ages, but still taken any way out of rebellion, and what a lightweight Puck had been under its influence. Pathetic.

Oh, but Kurt couldn't sit there as an ungrateful sad sack. Someone was allegedly in love with him. What a compliment. A good-looking boy of masculine demeanor with a Muscle Beach quality of a physique was attracted to the in's and out's of another boy, slender with skin soft as veal, who'd already given up at the age of thirteen of ever finding anyone of that caliber who'd be attracted to him in return. Like Quinn had said earlier, this was big, and despite the implications of revealing Puck's name, he'd come this far. They would forever question the identity of his admirer if a name was not given and the thought had Kurt sealing its fate with the opening of the mouth the letters often praised to be as beautiful as any moist cunt.

"Kurt, are you okay?" Came Quinn's voice, lulling him gently out of the cloud of his thoughts and back into reality. Puck's letters were strewn across the patchwork quilt, the envelopes a layer beneath them with their contents read and fully taken on board. It was best if they now returned into his school bag, yet he made no effort to do so. He merely sat there with an air about him that spoke of a translucent glass of water, unperturbed with a surface unblemished by ripples, flawless in state.

"Yeah, um... yeah, I'm fine. It's just... getting my head round it."

"Well, take as much time as you need."

"Thanks... wow, this feels weird... having someone in love with me."

"I wonder if he's that same mystery boy who kissed you in gym that one time."

"Oh yeah..." muttered Kurt, watching with unfocused eyes as Quinn began to return each letter into their appropriate envelopes, her fingers making slow but precise work and making sure no dents scarred their well pressed surfaces, yet it was the expression on Brittany's face, one of knowing, one giving away her realization that now had Kurt's face dead white and drained, yet with luscious lips still moving, eyes now trained on hers, glistening. "... well what if I told you it is the same boy."

"What do you mean? You know who kissed you?" Asked Quinn with Brittany beside her, daring him to say the name, to form the syllables on his tongue that now itched to reply. This love letter trail had ended. Love was the final stop, yet perhaps with love brought about a genuine essence to these letters if Puck were to continue bringing pen to paper, no longer pretending to be in love, but actually experiencing it. Oh how love was far more than Puck had imagined it to be. "Who was it? Who is-"

"Puck... its Puck," muttered Kurt, whisper like, but audible, barely. The room was made quiet and he shrank upon seeing Quinn's face with her cross-legged thighs now scissors with eyes of fire, her hair lifted in pale undulating tendrils, or so he imagined them. In truth, she remained beautiful, but with a face now lost. "Puck was the one who kissed me in gym class, and he's the one who's been writing to me all this time. He's my 'Dark Prince', Q... Noah Puckerman is in love with me."


	22. War and Peace

A series of incessant clang like sounds seemed to disturb the air in the boy's locker room. They varied in frequency and volume, but always incessant, like someone banging their head against weak metal, leaving a dent, leaving ugly hyper-pigmentation scars, a bruise. Truth was, the sounds emanated from fingers, Kurt's fingers that fumbled away at the lock of his locker. They just couldn't seem to turn the dial. They couldn't do anything. So many numbers on its surface. What was the code again? It escaped him. It was pathetic. He wasn't even in the right frame of mind to collect his gym equipment instead with thoughts of an evening that he had ruined, a sleepover where no one had slept, eyes wide-awake throughout the night.

Kurt had laid everything to bear. He'd revealed everything there was to now between him and Puck, as if confessing a crime, an affair punishable by death, both Quinn and Brittany, his beautiful blonde detectives. The explanation itself had been a trek, with constant interruptions. Speech had been difficult, like breathing under water. Ironic seeing as need for water had been frequent to alleviate his parched mouth, almost cracking inside as if the words he spoke only made to dry it further. He'd been aware that he was being watched with eyes that peered at him, Quinn's noisette orbs hurt most of the time, despite the gentle tone he'd forced his voice into, like reassuring a child the dark was nothing to be afraid of, yet he'd continued anyway.

A silence was all that had met the end. Kurt had finished talking, had remained completely still, stuck rigid almost in the same position and had answered without fail any questions Quinn had barely muttered out, anything to placate her, anything at all, for she had deserved the truth. She'd turned to Brittany, 'did you know about any of this?' Brittany had neither nodded or shaken her head. She'd shut her eyes, had sat there motionless in a mimicry of sleep with her breathing having been deep, low and rhythmic before she'd voiced her own thoughts. She'd known of Puck's interest in Kurt all along, even before Kurt, his eyes having then lowered to the quilt, news that had had Quinn running into her en-suite bathroom, 'BANG!' as it was locked.

Kurt had stayed the night, but by dawn, he'd been gone. Soon after, Brittany had left as well. Neither of them had felt welcome in Quinn's house anymore. The stink of betrayal was rank with them, and after many days, they continued to stink. Betrayal had a foul smell to it, like old copper pennies clenched in a sweaty hand, warm, moist and disgusting, very much like the locker room he was in now. He hadn't spoken to Quinn since that night. Denial, anger, fear and acceptance, all stages she was going through, every one of them hurdles set too high for legs as weak as hers, were taking their toll, and it wasn't Puck she cared about. Long had she got over him. It was Kurt. Having used her as his own Barbie, his pretty object, pretty bait.

Yet Kurt was not dead to Quinn. The boy was not a bad person and she knew this. He was good, full of good. Fear of being a sexual experiment, a broken heart, being labeled a converter, proving all homophobic fears true, she could understand Kurt's fear. He was just a little lamb of a boy. Just a porcelain lamb. He barely looked like he could make his own decisions. The kind that would panic if attacked, even put under pressure. Such a complex boy he was, with eyes so glassy blue, so big they looked as if they would lull his head down with their weight if they were to fill with tears. Her anger for him would wane in time, very quickly in fact with the great fondness she had for him, but the boy was not to know. He was to remain unknowing.

So continued Kurt's guilt stricken face, often masked in front of others, one that always felt heavy to wear, that gave him a headache, as if the skin were too dry to move, refusing to budge. It only slipped off in private, in quiet places, corners even where no one spare him a look, yet Puck had noticed. He always had his hazel eyes on him. His latest round of letters were in pain for seeing him in such unhappiness, the language and form rushed, yet effortlessly beautiful, that if even a tear were to leak from his eyes, the jock would not be held responsible for his actions. A hug, even in the middle of class to just kiss away those tears, anything to make his baby smile again, just like old times, just like that smile given at that fate fall football game.

Oh how Puck was in love with him. Made so obvious with no subtly. Perhaps it was this that was the only source of sugar to days that only had him beating himself up. He didn't think of how he'd betrayed the jock's trust. He couldn't afford to think of it. He ignored it with a mask of cool indifference, his demeanor more aloof, his sense of humor no longer lightly sarcastic and slapstick like as it had been, but mordant and dissonant, like biting into a cream puff only to discover ground glass. Yet at home, in his bedroom, it was different. Puck's letters were the only things that brought genuine smiles to his face and he was ever so grateful for them, the romance such a great relief, the erotism that bit more. Every single golden word appreciated.

It was with a smile on his face that found his fingers now turning the dial to the correct combination, the 'click!' welcoming to his ears, welcoming after so much of that infernal clanging of cold metal. It was with a smile that had his gym bag looped around his shoulder, light in weight for he always folded his clothes and arranged his toiletries in a specific way so as to not add any unnecessary strain to his shoulder, though it was with a grimace as he turned around to see a certain black haired Latina leaning on the door frame, nonchalant in posture, a nail file in hand with her eyes trained on her cuticles, not so much shortening them, but shaping them into talons, as if sharpening the kitchen knife on the honing steel right before the cut.

Calm as a wind-up doll was Kurt. Yet invisibly he was tense, quivering. His skin was clammy-pale, an unpleasant shade that always came about when around Santana, yet heated to the touch. He closed his locker, locked it firmly, hoisted his bag more securely on his shoulder and made his way over to her, stopping a few short meters away, as if she were a predator at a zoo, stand beyond the line too close to the cage and she could swipe open his throat in one quick motion to leave him lying in your own pool of blood. She was not a force to be reckoned with and as she raised her eyes to meet his, pupils of black, a shade dark enough to belong to the deepest of chasms, she smirked. She was going to lead this little lamb to the slaughter.

"You do realize that this is the boy's locker room," began Kurt, taken aback by the sheer reverberation of his voice, the echo that seemed to reach all the way to the last shower cubicle at the back with the tiles doing their very best to make the sound bounce. Yet it did not jar Santana from her point at the door. Nail file in hand, smirk still existent, giving off an air of boredom and uninterest, she shadily observed him. "I think you may have too little penis under that skirt of yours to be in here."

"Oh it's not nice to talk about yourself like that, Hummel," smirked Santana, putting away her nail file, the file itself almost completely white, red nail polish remains staining its flaky texture, worn down now to nothing but a toothpick. There she pocketed it and came forward, Kurt stepping back, determined to keep the distance constant, the balance even, only coming to a stop when the first ceased to approach. She could have backed him into a locker if she'd wished, but she didn't. Not yet.

"What do you want, Lopez?" Asked Kurt warily, his knees now quivering from under his Cheerio pants, yet quivers so small, they hardly waved the seams of his that ran up the sides. He wondered if Santana could notice. Her eyes were already smoking beagles to Sylvester's vivisectionist. There wouldn't be anything she could not pick up, and oh how she reveled in the pleasure. That smirk too thick with cheap cola gloss could not have widened anymore. How evil it was, the evilest smirk.

"Guess what I happened to come across..." began Santana, reaching behind her and pulling out a set of red enveloped letters, Puck's letters, choking for help as they were squeezed to death in the girl's tight unyielding grip. Kurt's heart, meanwhile, could only plummet. Oh no. "Beautiful aren't they. So well written, such nice penmanship. I've read every one, but even now I'm finding hard to believe Puck's whipped enough to have written all this sappy shit. Did you make him do this?"

"And what if I did, it's not of your business," snapped Kurt, his delivery as poisonous as she deserved. She was a thief. She'd broken into his locker and had stolen what rightfully belonged to him like the human herpe she was, squirted from her mother's dingy hole from a womb that had smoked and drank for six months straight, the olive skinned product now here before him with the nerve to show Puck's poor letters, like a criminal boasting his theft to the owner. Such cheek, such evil.

"Oh I see how it is... you're leading him on aren't you," began Santana, her words thick with disbelief before rounds of haughty giggles rang through the room. They were near to evolving, growing into those of hysterics, cackle like, that seemed to age her and that only had Kurt's bones rattling with a chill. "Got to a hand it to you Hummel, nice scheme. Stringing a boy along like this only to stamp on his heart at the end. I wouldn't have thought you'd have it in you. You're a real Cheerio now."

"Breaking hearts does not constitute a 'real Cheerio', Santana. Not to me, not to Sylvester or to any judge on a panel, and even if it did, then by no means would I be one, because I would never do such a thing, least of all to Puck," retaliated Kurt angrily. "You're filth, Lopez. If your mother had known that she'd been carrying your father's devil spawn then she'd have douched you out by morning. A huge tsunami of vinegar water would have flushed out those swimmers mid breast stroke."

"You always did have a witty tongue, didn't you Hummel. Such colorful language, but I suggest you shut that hole in your face seeing as what I have in my hands really gives you no position to be even talking," threatened Santana, her claws cutting into Puck's letters to the point of almost scratching them, scarring them, their screams deafening. "Who knows what I could do with these treasures, these touching, sappy as fuck little treasures, urgh! It's like a purge; I think I'm going to throw up."

"What are you going to throw up? You don't eat and you barely breathe," accused Kurt, his riled eyes incredulous as they gestured to a body with so little sinew; he was amazed she was even standing upright. "Your body has no natural functions left after all the diets you've been on. I mean, all you ever eat are cotton balls and tissues! Not to mention that Sylvester Master Cleanse crap you insist on ladling down your throat. It's disgusting. You're just going to end up on a drip somewhere."

"Sounds miles better than where these could end up," shrugged Santana, flapping Puck's almost spineless letters about. "What if I told you I have plans on photocopying every single one of these and sticking them on every wall in this school, sending copies to his family, to the moms he's fucked for two years, outing him to everyone in this town as the closeted fag who fell in love... unless the little pasty faced ghost boy he loves does what I say and doesn't say another fucking word."

"Blackmailing me isn't going to work, Santana," replied Kurt, shaking his head with eyes that changed, like a swimmer's sight darkening the deeper he ventured. He wanted to throttle her. To grab her neck and throttle her. For hours on end, he didn't care, just as long he crushed her windpipe. To silence her for good. Who did she think she was? "No matter what you make me do, I'm never going to trust you to give those letters back to me. No sane person ever would. You're nothing but a liar."

"You really want to risk it, Hummel? How about I tell you what I had in mind for McKinley's favorite rectal pioneering sausage jockey? See if he comes to his senses," began Santana. "Whatever it is you have with Puckerman, I want it to end and I mean all of it. The letters, the looks and any other gay stuff you may be doing together, you and him are finished, but I guess the best part is, and what an honor this should be, I want  _you_  to break the news to him. I want  _you_  to break his heart."

"Never, I will never do such a thing," answered Kurt, ignoring premonition like images of Puck's face, grief stricken from an onslaught of rejection, 'I don't love you! You're not worth loving! You don't deserve it!' That handsome face would crumble, 'don't cry on me you wuss! I don't want some crying deadbeat for a boyfriend!' The jock would stumble back, pleading with those shimming hazel eyes, 'stay away from me, Puckerman!' And there to be left behind in Kurt's wake, torn love letters.

"That's too bad, Hummel. I really thought you had Puckerman's interests at heart, but I guess you don't care that his high school career and even his life here in Lima will never be the same again," smiled Santana. "Well, I better be off. These aren't going to photocopy themselves, but... then again before I do, I think I'm going to pay your boyfriend a little visit, fuck his brains out one last time, you know, just for old time's sake, and who knows. I might pull him out of your gay voodoo spell."

"Like that is ever going to happen," dismissed Kurt, knowing full well Puck wouldn't consent to plunge himself into an empty cut, a nothingness, to fill an empty balloon of a womb that needed blowing up, least of all one of a washed up high school slut. "You'd be far better throwing yourself under a bus, Santana, but whilst you're at it, warn your mom so that when she comes to have another child, she can order one that's genetically modified. No chance then of another hideous accident."

"I really think it's time you shut the fuck up, Hummel. You do not want to make me mad," seethed Santana, now nearing him with a Lima Heights posture, any sense to femininity removed, stripped in favor of a manner of walking so akin to a thug about to rob him, Kurt could not help but feel intimidated, as if he were in a dark alleyway about to have the dirty cobbled stones stained with his silver unicorn blood, almost translucent in Brittany's description. Oh how he was in need of a friend.

"Santana, I know you're only doing this to Puck to get at me," replied Kurt. "If you had any real feelings for him you would have let him go, accepted him for who he is and moved on, but you don't. Why would you when you all you saw him as was arm candy, a muscled blow up doll who didn't want to take any more of your crap and instead came to me, someone you find threatening, someone you to have to scare into blackmail because you can't face the fact that you can't handle me. Period."

"Don't play psychoanalysts with me, fag," ordered Santana, uncrossing her hands free from her chest and with her index finger, her taloned nail poised in the air as if like a knife positioning itself for the fatal stab, she prodded him above his third rib, denting his top, hurting his skin. "I could hogtie and castrate you in sixty-seconds Hummel, so what makes you think I 'can't handle you'? There's nothing to handle. Look at you. You're just a whey faced cream puff with jelly for muscles."

"Says the girl who was insecure enough to land herself with a pair of watermelon freak show breasts that act as nothing but rock hard signposts for silicon valley," retorted Kurt, swatting away Santana's finger and gesturing down at the most rigid looking pair of breasts he'd even seen. They didn't move, didn't even sway or bounce, almost plaster like. "I mean hungry infants as far out as New Jersey can see that those are fake, not that they would ever near them, they must feel like shit."

"So will you and Puck when I'm finished with you both. Face it lady lips, you're never going to have the last laugh. I've won. Puck was merely a toy to you, like he was to me, like he'll be to everybody, except you took it to the next level, didn't you. Playing with his heart like that. You, behind all those clothes and man makeup, a scared little boy crying for your dead mommy and daddy. It'd be funny if it weren't so pathetic..." scowled Santana rather eerily. "... Oh what the hell I'll laugh anyway."

Like a boxer trained not to lead but to counterpunch, Kurt jerked his head up at this cackling remark and met the eyes of his tormentor, beauty replaced with muddy toned skin and lips that now stank of artificial lipgloss, and without another word he dropped his bag to the floor, lifted his leg and kicked Santana in the stomach, sending her stumbling back, losing her balance and falling to the ground, her body skidding the remaining stretch. She didn't have time to scream, cough, or rub at her now watering eyes that swelled, for Kurt had already grabbed her ponytail and was wrenching it up with enough force to rip her scalp off in one clean yank of his wrist, as if he were holding a freshly decapitated head of a 'traitor!' for the cheering crowds.

There were Santana's arms flailing about pathetically as if she were a victim begging for mercy, for her life. Her hands had let loose the letters, all of them now lying on the floor, with her fingers wrapped around his wrists, desperate to release his hold. Her position was at too odder angle to pry them off successfully, yet it made it all the easier for Kurt to swing his knee right into the center of her face, the cap breaking her nose with what only be described as a beautiful  _crack!_  One so satisfying, payback for what this girl had done to him the first game of the season. With blood now gushing from her face like a faucet too loose under pipes rattling with too greater pressure, Santana was nothing but a sorry sight, a battered, beaten, bitch.

Kurt's attacks were damn good attacks for a boy who'd never raised a hand to anyone in his life before, someone who wasn't of a physical build to throw punches that uncoiled from the shoulder and essentially a boy of sweet-nature, certainly not a fighter. With Santana now on all fours like a wounded animal, he felt empowered, in control. The blood leaking from her misshapen nose now stained her Cheerio top, not with delicate drops, but heavy ones that spread quickly in circumference as they soaked right into the material. The metallic taste of it now drenched her lips with some even on the tip of her tongue that only drew back in disgust, and the pain. Oh how it throbbed. It pulsed and pounded, never ending, always fucking there.

"Don't you dare touch those letters again Lopez, or I will sandpaper your face to the bone until there's only one layer of skin holding you in," warned Kurt, panting, now wordless as he nursed his throbbing knee. The injury it had caused, however, was worth the pain, even the minor limp as he turned around to see red envelopes everywhere, lying on a damp and dingy floor where the feet of athletes had trodden like a pack of uncleaned lions. It was enough to wince, to wince severely at the sight.

"Dermabrasion from Puckerman's gay whore? No thanks," declined Santana, spluttering out blood, spitting it out, before getting up on quivering knees. Her hands splayed themselves out on the lockers behind her, keeping her upright, proving a terrifying sight. She looked like a zombie. Wild matted hair, her chest resembling a baby bib of blood and her mouth, so much blood, as if she'd just bitten a huge chunk from a badly bleeding victim. "That's right Hummel, you're his whore now. Own it."

"I am  _not_  his whore," voiced Kurt, emphasizing every word as if they were underline bold italics in the air with Santana now stumbling slowly towards him, hunched, her breathing labored, almost wheezy but with amusement in her eyes. He could have had her fooled. Puck had written Kurt some pretty smutty stuff. Literature's version of sexting only with no chatty acronyms that destroyed the English language, but with full words that had left almost nothing to the imagination. Almost.

"Tell me Hummel, does he fuck you good?" Questioned Santana, catching the flash of discomfort that streamed across eyes too fucking innocent to hear this. "Does he bend you over the hood of his truck, the dumpster, his kitchen counter with his family in the next room and fuck you good? Or does he do it some other way? Flips you over when he's finished and comes all over your pretty little face? Makes you taste him? Tastes bad doesn't he? The sour taste of a boy who's good for nothing!

"Sure, when he was with you, but when he came to sense Puck never did anything so well as to dump your ass. I know. I was there, I saw everything and boy you should have seen your face!" Smiled Kurt, his smile nasty with lips of scorn. "And as long as that boy loves me, I'll be his whore! He can fuck me whatever and whichever way he likes just as long as there's a sliver of emotion behind it, and yes it'll hurt, but it'll be a good hurt, because I'll trust him not to hurt me any other way."

"Oh, so you two have yet to fuck. Interesting. Well news flash you little twink, Puck can't fuck for shit," replied Santana, her tone so blunt it stunned Kurt into silence, his eyes rapidly blinking like morse code, 'w-what?' As Santana looked smugly on at the predicted reaction. "That's right, Hummel. Everything you've heard about him being all that in bed, this so called 'sex shark', amazing at fucking pussy, eating pussy, even kissing: bullshit, all rumors, with girls too shit scared to say anything."

"What, including you?" Challenged Kurt as Santana all but threw her head back and laughed, the blood on her chin now traveling down her neck, with miniature droplets flying from her cackling mouth. In truth, Puck just gave off light in bed, never heat. Sex was something to have done, never something to be doing. He'd never been in it for the cuddling, which all made sense seeing as he was now gay, or bisexual, or whatever sexuality. She didn't know what the hell his deal was anymore.

"Hell no, I only slept with him to remind myself how good of a fuck I was. Turns out, very," smirked Santana. "So great job Hummel, you've landed yourself with a boy who has no idea what he's doing and like every other girl before you, you won't say anything. He'll fuck you like a freshman virgin, rushed with no rhythm, and he'll fall asleep on top of you when he's done, just like a little boy tired from playing with his new toy, one that also won't be able to fuck worth shit either- argh, fuck!"

With a cracking sound whipping the air, one even more beautiful than the last, so very beautiful, Kurt threw out his hand and struck Santana across the face. Not a fist. Open palm with lashings of her blood now staining his hand as if he were about to take an oath or wipe the Pharaoh Rameses II's slaves' doors with sheep's blood. Maybe he ought to wipe his hand off on the vile girl in front of him, further matte her hair down with it, ruin her whorish makeup, give her as much fucking rouge as she wanted! He watched her look up. He watched her abused skin redden under his now disappearing handprint, but all she did was laugh. With cracked lips, blood staining her teeth, Santana wiped her mouth with her arm and laughed at him. Laughed!

She laughed because like Puck, she could see Kurt wasn't going to be a perfect fuck by any means. He'd never know how, or how to give a blowjob either. You'd just fuck his mouth, and it was a luscious mouth so she guessed that would be okay, but it would be something you did to yourself, like jerking off. She could see the boy would either lie there and let it be done to him like a corpse with his hands clasped together on his chest or he'd get so excited, so crazed, there wouldn't be  _any_  rhythm with him either, as if he'd never masturbated before or touched his slender body he wouldn't know how to operate worth shit. Funny! Like Puck, Kurt having an orgasm would be like everyone stampeding for the exit door at the same fucking time.

Christ, she had so much to laugh about! The idea that Puck's eyes that had once stalked these halls with a hue of fearsome hazel had all but popped into glossy pink hearts for irises over this doll faggot, adopting a lifestyle that was all but taboo in Lima, a secret way of life that would only house quick, casual sex with no dates, God it undid her so. The last laugh always was the roar, with her sides splitting and her lungs devoid of oxygen, both organs shaking raucously. She couldn't stop her hysterics, not even to dash on over with stumbled feet to Puck's letters on the floor before piling them all into her hands, Kurt hot on her tail, shoving her, this time punching her with a fully charged arm, drawn back,  _smack!_  Now she laughed no more.

There they were in mid fight, almost judo in fashion, grappling, with Kurt's hands on her shoulders, hers on his, struggling, with no specific direction laid forth. Their backs hit the lockers with the dials cutting into their spines, their shins would stumble into the benches set to topple them over and all the while unconsciously nearing the showers until with a weighty shove, Kurt pushed Santana into them, watching as she skidded into the wall at the far end with another beauty of a  _smack!_ Yet she recovered, albeit heavily dazed with stars of near concussion circling her head, but with eyes that now landed on the shower, then on the letters, then back on the shower again. Fuck blackmail, this looked like it would be twice the fucking fun.

Looking on with horror, disbelieving Santana would rid herself of evidence; Kurt watched as the Latina pushed herself from the wall and made her way back towards him, to one of the middle cubicles. Yet she never made it. About to reach for the handle, her misplaced footing on the wet tiles sent her falling, the floor supporting her with as much grip as ice, with enough of one's reflection glistening back that a hazardous end was inevitable, for there was no saving her. The letters all but flew up out of her hand into the air like confetti and with her blood curdling screams ringing out like the fall of the blade, the final deafening  _crack!_  rang around the room, though this one was by no means beautiful, too ugly in sound, now a real  _crack!_

It was over, and with that, silence reigned. Steadying his trembling hands, Kurt opened his eyes to see Santana Lopez sprawled on the shower floor. Her elbows, knees and limbs bent at odd angles as if she had just prayed victim to a huge skyscraper plummet. In her last seconds, she'd fallen in terror and it was a fitting punishment. Except the bitch should've suffered more, maybe a little, perhaps a whole lot. If this had been a film sequence, there would have been close up, with the camera right in her face, not looking down from above. The minor ripples that caught the light in the water would have made the fall so beautiful like a painting, with Santana fallen and unconscious. A body sprawled inert. Nothing but just a female body, fallen.

Kurt dared not near her, with fear his body would find itself broken boned along with hers, as well as the chance she'd shoot up and grab his ankle, screaming. The walls of these showers would do well echoing such a scream. It had the sonic playback of a cavern, but it wasn't so much this that captured the attention. The water around Santana's head was now polluted with pink, descending the red shade scale rapidly until now; it was nothing but blood, her chest not even rising as if she was dead, product of a murder. But it was an accident! It was! It had to be believed! Kurt's tears had to be believed, and as he looked at her with not even the smallest trace of amusement or cheer, it was he, not Santana, who had had the last laugh after all.

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

It had started with a rumor, as it always did. The hints were in her absence, the malevolent aura only she knew how to exude gone, and the faint reddish pink hues on the tiles in the boys' locker room subject to strange looks, evidence that refused to wash out, before confirmation had been dropped, announced in fact by Sylvester at the Cheerio's next practice with so little feeling it was as if it hadn't mattered that Santana was her head cheerleader, the star of the squad. She was just like any other injured Cheerio before her, simply out of action, but with her name atop everyone's lips, on their wagging tongues and in their mouths, just what some supposed she'd always dreamed of, everyone tasting her at the same time.

Sylvester had been careful not to say much else. It had been done on purpose. No one was yet aware of how Santana's injuries had come about or where, just that it had been an 'accident', the aftermath of which she'd witnessed and would continue to remember. That day, whilst passing the boy's locker rooms, she'd overheard a disturbance emanating from within, grunts of distress, a struggle, and had stormed in with an intent on breaking apart a locker room fight, such brawls frequent where every floating particle in the air was made up of so called 'alpha male' testosterone, only to find a boy as pale as a cotton sheet, screaming and crying his little lungs out at the sight of a girl lying dead still in a growing pool of her own blood.

An ambulance had been called and Santana had been taken to the St. Rita's Medical Center, there to be hospitalized for at least a week. She was currently staying in a hospital room closed to all visitors except her family, propped up against pillows, in glaring white, IV tubes in both her arms and a breathing tube in her nostrils. She looked like the survivor of a disaster, one who would have no language in which to explain why she'd hemorrhaged severely, the many bruises, the lacerations, her damaged spine, her cracked skull, her concussion. She'd lay there silent with her eyes shut like a body floating beneath the surface of the water with her breaths so shallow she would always be mistaken for dead by everyone, even her doctors.

Kurt meanwhile had been asked by Sylvester to take a leave off school until he'd recovered from the accident, but not before he'd had to recount everything that had happened for an hour and a half in her office. Having sat there with lusterless waxy white skin and having often slipped into light hypnotic dozes from his sheer exhaustion, Kurt had let the listening coach in on everything. The damp remains of Puck's letters that he'd recovered from the shower room floor, some wet with others too soggy to salvage, had been handed over for inspection, their significance explained, the details of his secret dalliance with the jock revealed, but with Sylvester's word, Kurt had been dismissed home knowing his secret would remain undisclosed.

With Santana in her hospital bed, Kurt had retired to his own; his basement door locked with a 'Do Not Disturb' sign posted, or would have been if he'd had one. He'd lie in his sheets with only his underwear on, body still groggy with exhaustion, only managing to stomach water, eggs and chocolate on occasion. Sometimes he'd cross his vanity and see dark under eye circles shadowing his eyes, his lips slack with scratch marks down his cheeks where Santana had clawed at him. Such was the state of his appearance that he'd have his friends deliver his homework through the mail, too frightened to collect it from them in person. He'd have to give an explanation, he'd have to talk, but he didn't want to talk. He needed to be alone right now.

Then there was the remains of Puck's letters. The ones that had drowned in the shower room. All of them had expanded from the water, their texture wrinkled and buckled, the paper crackling as if they were aged scrolls from centuries before, about to disintegrate into dust whenever Kurt held them. The wax seals on the back of the envelopes had luckily remained intact, unperturbed by the water, and though Kurt had had his doubts as to whether Puck's beautiful words had survived, he was relieved to discover that they had. Not a single letter was unreadable, even if there some were slightly smudged and faded and Kurt was thankful that Puck had written him some very resistant love letters. Ones meant to live out very long lives.

Puck. Oh Puck. Kurt would smile at memories of looks exchanged in the corridors, how in class the jock would always snatch the seat next to him as if he were a beggar given food with his leg that would cross over his knee at the ankle almost coming to stroke Kurt's own crossed legs, angling his body towards his, the innocent brush of the shoulder and how Puck's fingers would linger and cradle Kurt's own, even only for second when he would pass Kurt a piece of paper. In the lunch cue, the jock would be right behind him, masking his hungry moans from sniffing his coconut candy scented hair with the smell of the food, even though the latter was anything but appetizing. For Kurt was the only course on the menu Puck's mouth watered for.

These thoughts of Puck, these memories of him seemed to bring about a change in Kurt. That in total twenty-five letters had been written to him; only twenty-five had ever been needed for him to come to a decision, one brought about with a smile, a  _smile!_  The first in days. After what had happened with Santana, this miracle could have been seen as a sign that he'd recovered overnight from an actual illness. Immediately, Kurt wanted Puck, like Puck wanted him. He missed the jock, so handsome in the face, so handsome in the body too, had seduced him with imaginings of them together flushed with their eyes dilated with love, laughing, kissing, tousling each other's hair, hating clothes between them with their bodies naked...

Kurt had got to work, showering and sitting himself down at his vanity ready with his paints to rid himself of this wan, sallow look only to feel a hideous sensation of his skin slack on his bones and unyielding to a new tug on gravity as if his round boneless cheeks were sagging. It was not working. So with gentle hands he removed his failed makeup, placing damp warmed gauzy cloths to soothe his sensitive skin roughened by the cruel caprice of his locker room fight. Without haste, he'd begun his rites a second time, astringent, tinted moisturizer and concealer and as the minutes had passed, there emerged out of his mirror a familiar presence, designed subtly differently than usual, worn just for Puck. This look was just for him.

Kurt left the house soon after with his favorite of Puck's letters placed neatly in his messenger bag, the one that had asked so fervidly for a meeting, one that Kurt had not been ready for at the time. He took to walking the thirty to forty minutes to the jock's house, leaving the Navigator to rest in the driveway in favor of stretching the legs he hadn't used for what felt like so long and to breathe in the air of fresh oxygen instead of the stale, stuffy air of his bedroom that had either lulled him into fourteen hours of sleep or as little as four. It had ruined his sleeping patterns, but he was awake now, his eye lids not heavy or drooping into closure but fully awake, showing off his beautiful colored irises so very blue they served to make them pop.

The clouds in the sky had now lost their translucence and opacity. Instead they had darkened ominously, grouping together and blocking out the light, the sun now reduced to a sickly thin crescent, imitating on first glance a perpetual solar eclipse by the time Kurt had turned onto Puck's street, his pace quickened with footsteps in rhythm, though with a posture braced with his head down against the wind. It was a battle now. The mild breeze that had welcomed him outside had all but escalated into stronger gales, rustling the trees and tearing off the remains of their dead leaves, a myriad of autumn oranges flitting across the road, clumping at the sides before whirring into the air like miniature tornados. In the distance, Puck's house.

However, an unseen pothole in the road was quick to unsteady Kurt's balance and sent him falling to the ground, grazing the palms on his outstretched hands as his bag beside him burst open. There Puck's letter was quick to slip out, fluttering on the ground like a fish out of water, gasping for air as it tried to jump back into the bag, yet before Kurt could retrieve it with fingers numbed down from deadened nerve endings, the forceful windswept it up into the air, shaking it about, treating it like another dead leaf about to be ripped apart. Struggling back onto his feat, Kurt ran after it, eyes squinting, red rimmed and watering heavily from this tempest like wind hitting his face, his body-stooped low with his arms wildly outstretched, blind.

He was in no mood to play with Mother Nature. The bitch was out to make him look ridiculous in front every resident of the street, as if punishing him by public humiliation. Every time he got close to the letter, it would fly off, dodging his grasp, just out of reach. It was always a close catch that infuriated him until it snagged itself against a pair of sneakers on the sidewalk. There it flapped uncontrollably like a baby bird trying to take off with a broken wing, now dying as the wind ceased and the sky lightened, now still. Kurt remained stooped, but his eyes widened as a familiar tanned hand, an athlete's hand, a hand with fine black hairs on the back descended to pick the letter up before bringing it up to frowning hazel eyes, rich in curiosity.

Kurt, meanwhile, dabbed at his watering eyes with his fingers and sighed. This was not how he'd wished this meeting to start. This jock towering above him like a skyscraper must have seen him frolicking around like a fool, chasing a letter like a kitten chasing string, like a child playing in the street. Indeed never before had the jock seen Kurt so  _young,_ and after days of not seeing the boy only to find him here in front of his house, he couldn't help but smile softly on, now lowering that same big, practiced hand before Kurt's widened baby blue eyes again, palm open in which the fair boy now rested his own 'feminine-pale lotion soft' hand in, safely encased in thick fingers as he was raised to his feet in a chivalrous act that had his legs numb.

Yet as he made to retrieve his hand, the jock held on tightly, keeping it put; now cradling it in his own, though this was no cause for alarm. Kurt had since learned that the boy liked to hold things he cared for, to feel and touch them as thoroughly as he could, as if he were holding a helpless baby animal in his palm. Occasionally he'd enter his own world where his pupils would dilate, his feet would shuffle and his mouth would part as if in awe that he was in close proximity to what he craved. For Kurt, it wasn't a sight that he'd seen all that often, mostly because it had looked like a private moment the jock would experience by himself, but now with his hand the center of Noah Puckerman's full attention, it all really was worth watching.

"H-hey," asked Puck quietly, finally meeting Kurt's glassy blue eyes with his own, his voice hoarse in which he had to swallow and clear several times until he found it safe to speak again, though he was tongue-tied on what to say. This was so unexpected. He'd merely come out to the front door to collect the mail when he'd spotted Kurt through the glass, running around in the road as if the wind were sweeping him off his feet. It had been beautiful to watch. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you. I have something of yours I wanted to reply to. Here," answered the fair boy, nodding over to the letter in Puck's hand in which the jock soon opened. 'Beseeching Adonis'. Oh yes, he remembered this letter, writing it during a particularly severe bout of arousal, with his belly hot and a straining erection, hot, one that had quivered as much as his pen had, but did this mean... Was Kurt ready? Was he? Puck was quick to gape back as the boy smiled. "I've missed you...  _Noah_."

"I... I've missed you too, Kurt," replied Puck breathily, retrieving the boy's hand he'd relinquished and rubbing his thick thumb over its roof, the skin so soft, the living envelope of Kurt's beauty. Never before had the boy addressed him by his given name. This was the first time, bringing along with it a new level of intimacy that Kurt was openly initiating, had done with a sexy murmurous roll of the tongue, flirting, using a biblical name that withheld no allure, until now. "Where've you been?"

"Want do you mean?"

"Well, you haven't been at school. I was getting worried."

"Oh, I wasn't feeling well, but I'm better now."

"Good, that's... shit Kurt, you're shivering all over! Here, come into me."

"I'm fine Noah, it's just cold out here is all," assured Kurt dismissively, his cool facade faltering as Puck was quick to pick up the vibrations in his hand, how his fair fingertips were reddening, the nails discolored pink. It frightened the jock. His boy freshly recovered from illness and he was out here risking a cold? Not on his watch! It had Puck fussing over him like a parent wrapping their child up warmly before going out, bringing Kurt into his chest and wrapping his big arms snuggly around him.

"Better?" Asked Puck quietly as Kurt nodded from beneath his chin, a baby like "mmhmm" moaning into his chest, a chest that rumbled with a chuckle in response. God Kurt could stay pressed to his chest for so long. It was so warm. How was it so very warm? And the belly. Such a warm belly pressing into his own. Now Puck was the 'toasty' water bottle of the two, with course dark hair of a Mohawk for a fur coating, now asking, "You wanna come in? It's warmer inside than it is out here."

"That would be nice... thanks," replied Kurt appreciatively, pulling back slightly to catch those hazel eyes now fastening on him. They scoured his pale face, for it looked different somehow, the very thin residue of oils on Kurt's skin, along with the tinted moisturizer, served to contour his cheeks with a natural luminous highlight, so luminous, but with scratch marks, faint but apparent under concealer. Hazel eyes now frowned with a finger stroking the marks, but left the query unvoiced, for now.

"Come with me," smiled Puck, directing Kurt with an arm around his shoulder, opening the picket face for them, closing it, and making their way up the weaving cobbled stone pathway, strewn with damp leaves. Kurt was very careful not to slip on the uneven surface. He held on tightly to the boy beside him and eyed the unclosed door up ahead, left to hang there, wavering ajar for their return, welcoming  _him_ , for it remembered him and Kurt remembered it. What a first impression they had had.

Even now reaching the threshold with the door before them, Puck watched Kurt's eyes travel its surface, his beautiful Kurt. Throughout this whole encounter, he'd lost himself in contemplation of him. There was the Kurt who spoke to him with a voice so refined and so damn soft, and there was the Kurt at a short distance from him. The one an object of emotion, the other an object of aesthetic admiration. Which of was course was a type of emotion, no less intense. Now both sets of emotions seem to come together as they were, Kurt lodged comfortably into his side with arms wrapped around each other, and about to bring a certain letter to life. His beseeching was over. His fair Adonis had come, now here inside his home.  _My beautiful Kurt._


	23. Lion & Kitten

It was Friday afternoon, just ten minutes past four by the time Kurt had been offered to make himself comfortable on the three cushioned couch in the Puckerman living room, now stretching to fifteen minutes past by the time he'd finished squinting his eyes to read the time ticking away on the linen white mantelpiece clock, a new addition. He was in surroundings that appeared to have been altered since his last visit. Despite the room retaining its somewhat milky, cedar wood aroma that brought about it images of summer villages and pinewoods, the furniture had been moved. The television was gone, an end table lamp was missing and the glass in the mirror above the mantelpiece was no more, leaving behind an empty frame.

Across the hall, in the kitchen, milk and four teaspoons of cocoa powder flooded a pot, the stove's Bunsen burner like bluish flame from underneath boiling it into bubbles that were soon poured into a matte mug, all for Kurt, made for Kurt, to heat that body of his, that fair skin. Puck had insisted on serving a warm beverage upon entrance. It was merited, but he'd been nervous as to how Kurt liked his hot cocoa. Whipped cream? Marshmallows? Vanilla extract? Rivulets of sticky perspiration on his face and down his neck would have come about if he'd peered any longer over that sweet smelling pot, unfamiliar with what he was doing, merely going off with what he'd seen his mother do, every step of the recipe ingrained in faint memories.

He and Kurt were the only ones in the house. His mother wasn't due back for another hour, 'longer shifts mean something big!' she had said to him in a voice as thrilled as any girl's, a difference from her usual flat, toneless and subtly mocking drone when it came to discussing her job, ' _it is the yellow brick road to a promotion!_ ' Sarah, his younger sister, was staying over at a friend's, a common occurrence on Friday's with Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board, Paper fortune tellers and makeovers the ultimate opening act for the weekend, usually leaving Puck the house free for hooking up, to boom his music loudly and to do whatever he so wished within walls that only ever left him feeling palpably lonely when alone, freeing at first, painful at last.

In the end, no fancy toppings were sprinkled on, left to bob up and down on the frothy surface. Light foam was all that coated the cocoa as he entered the living room and placed the mug on the coffee table before Kurt, a coaster quickly sliding underneath to avoid those unsightly rings his mother despised. Kurt's smile was quick to thank him, "thanks", as warm as the beverage itself. There were dried drip marks along the side of the mug, faded slightly from Puck's attempts at having tried to wipe them away, perhaps unsightly, but ignored as Kurt's smile remained alive, leaning over to gaze into the steaming hot liquid, light as chestnut and flickering into a lighter shade of vanilla white as it caught the sun streaming in from the windows.

Puck was proud of his handiwork as he watched Kurt from his nestled position in the armchair opposite. The smile on those lips was worth it, and those eyes, watching as the softening ripples disappeared, the vibrations dying, the bubbles in the foam all popped out to reveal a smooth stretch of hot cocoa, those blue eyes now on him, watching him. Kurt's body was now leaning forward towards the jock as if he were about to impart a secret, perhaps one he dared not disclose, yet about to whisper it as playfully as a child in mid game. He landed his fingers without a sound on the polished wood, stroking it, his skin sliding over the table as if resembling two skates, weaving themselves without a care over an ocean of crystalline ice.

What was this boy doing? Puck didn't know. Did Kurt? He merely sat there entranced, his body unmoving with his sight flicking from blue pools still fixed on him, staring at that mouth, wondering what desperate foul things that mouth could do, and those fingers that had minds of their own with no movement uncoordinated, not even fucking one out of line, so damn elegant as if Kurt was a natural at whatever he was doing, that he had brains but operated from instinct, that he could see himself through Puck's eyes. It was more powerfully, more totally sexual to the jock than any other human connection he'd ever known, how those fingers inched themselves closer and closer towards the mug until with a dull  _clink!_ , nail hit ceramic.

Up and up the finger rose, ascending the mug at a tortuously slow speed. Puck's big hands were gripping onto his armrests, clenching down so hard the wood creaked, softly moaning, echoing his own moans. Wait, was he moaning? Fuck, he was moaning. During seduction, he never moaned, for he was Puck. A mere wink would have his arms engulfed with woman, and they in turn would smile the perfect pout, would check their girdles, the swing of their hems, their cleavage. With Kurt, it was different. His seduction wasn't slutty, it was playful, as if his toes curved under in a gesture of childlike modesty as he did it, the soles of his feet exposed, a small rounded belly with a little triangle of shyly trimmed pubic hair at the fork of his legs-

"Kurt, I'm gay," blurted Puck suddenly as Kurt's finger, which had been close to dipping itself within the cocoa, sharply retracted itself as if it had been scolded, turning red and throbbing with a wince pulling at fair skin, the pain. Yet there would have been no pain. The cocoa wasn't even that hot anymore, now lukewarm, safe to down in one gulp if so wished, and oh how Kurt wished to do just that, for his mouth was parched, now gaping, exposing a tongue too immobile to move, just slack.

"Kurt?" Voiced the jock, now unsure, so unsure. He was made uncomfortable by the silence, shuffling in his squeaking armchair, with his palms now sweaty. They left darkened damp prints on the armrests and on his jeans as he rubbed them up against the denim, and when he clasped them restlessly together in his lap, a rather odd hand position for him to take up, but he didn't know what to do! Kurt wasn't saying anything! "Kurt? Say something, please. I'm sweating my ass off here."

"I'm sorry," breathed Kurt, blinking away a stunned mask to take in hazel eyes at that their most vulnerable.  _Never_  had Puck appeared so vulnerable. There had been times yes, but this was such potent vulnerability that had Kurt handing him his cocoa insisting, "here, drink this", Puck replying, "but it's yours." "Just drink it, Noah." And so there sat the jock drinking away the first hot cocoa he'd ever made. It wasn't bad, needed heating but he'd downed it to leave his tongue now feeling fuzzy.

"Thanks, I-" Puck's words drifted off like children's balloons, lacking gravity as Kurt took the mug out of his hands and hurried out of the room. Into the kitchen he'd gone, or so it sounded. The running of the tap, the rinsing of the mug and filling it too forcefully to leave water spitting all around the sink, the sides included, just harmless water droplets now staining Kurt's jumper. Very soon he returned, handing the mug over to the still seated jock, his face perplexed but appreciative. "Thanks."

"You looked like you needed it more than I do," smiled Kurt, seating himself lightly on the coffee table opposite the jock, hands clasped in his lap. Like the cocoa before, he watched as Puck rapidly downed the mug, handing it over to him once he'd finished, there to be put back on its coaster, there to stay, for now, though refills weren't important. Being here with Puck at such a time, focusing on him, listening to him, was what was asked from Kurt as he spoke, "thanks for telling me, Noah."

"Sure. Had to tell someone."

"Am I the first to know?"

"Yeah."

"Wow... you must really trust me."

"Well, sure I do Kurt. I don't know what we are, but at least we're friends, and you're the only other guy I know who's gone through this before... right?" Asked Puck, gradually leaning forward in his armchair with his elbows resting on his knees, hands also clasped, but loosely, his fingers barely entwined. It was an encouraging sign the jock was calming somewhat, especially as Kurt was quick to answer with a nod to his question, now asking another, "How was it like? Your coming out?"

"Do you mean to my dad or to my friends or..." trailed Kurt frowning as Puck replied simply with, 'Everyone'. "Well in my case, everyone believes I'm gay just from the way I look. You know, I'm effeminate and that in itself gives people enough of an idea. It did my dad anyway. I remember when I came out to him when I was thirteen, he said he'd known all along, ever since I asked for a pair of sensible heels when I was three, and he was cool with it, not in love with the idea, but cool."

"I don't know how my mom's gonna take it if I tell her," muttered Puck, his eyes downcast to the floor with a head that followed soon after. Oh how Kurt could sympathize. He'd not known how his father would react either, but he'd always thought the worst, with ideas that he'd come out only once he'd moved out to avoid the pain of being thrown out. All out. "She's always wanted me to find a nice Jewish girl to settle down with, have kids with and you know, go about life that way."

"They all do, Noah. Most parents would prefer not to have gay children. Not only because they may be homophobic, but in this society, life for their kids will be just that much harder for them because of their sexuality, and it pains them," replied Kurt quietly. "That's why you have to surround yourself with those who accept you for who you are, and who you in turn feel comfortable to be around. It may be a struggle to find people like that here in Lima, but for now, at least you've got me."

"I sure do," smiled Puck, breaking out into light chuckles at the way Kurt had said 'me', like a child saying 'cheese!' through clenched teeth as they smiled exaggeratedly for the camera. So adorable, so cute. It had the jock shuffling himself forward onto the edge of his armchair and taking hold of the boy's fair hands in his, cupping and cradling them softly as only he could. "There's so much I wanna tell you Kurt, and not just because you're the only person here I can, but because I  _want_  to."

"That's good to know," smiled Kurt. He knew he naturally had the kind of baby-face people told their stories to, even if he'd occasionally have to force his attention, but with Puck, it couldn't be a performance, it had to be real, for a misplaced face on his part could signal rejection and that could not be afforded at such a sensitive time. "You can tell me as much as you little as you like, as long as what it is you're happy with me knowing. If not, don't say it, I won't mind. It's totally up to you, Noah."

It was up to Puck now. This was his hour, with sixty minutes reserved only for his words, the revelation of McKinley's greatest closet case and he was nervous, hoping not to falter, allowed to, but wishing not to, not in front of Kurt. The boy was standing before him, a soft "may I?" escaping his lips, a flustered "sure _"_  escaping the jock's, now retreating back into his armchair and lounging in that sexy masculine bad boy way, adjusting himself for an air of nonchalance that came to all places, but his face. Such an expression of exhilaration, as if in anticipation of his first blowjob, or even the simple experience of having his tee shirt removed for vapor rub to be spread all over his chest, the sheer heat that would fire him up, the tingling.

Kurt was smiling. He sat himself in between Puck's open thighs that welcomed him, feeling that hot groin, that belly and resting his back against a chest that housed a heart with one hell of a beat. He'd felt it in the past, been close to it, knowing it was strong, but goodness was it beating now, as if it was beating for both of them. What a heart! It had never meant to be by itself. No heart of that size ever was. For so long had it been a virgin that knew only of platonic love and storge, closeted eroticism yes, but never romance. Never had it grown attached to anyone in that sense. There'd been nobody to attach itself to until it had first seen Kurt in that mall, beating fast as if it were panting like a dog, asking, ' _who's that boy?_ '

That boy was Kurt Hummel, snuggling himself up against a beating love muscle, taking a jock's strong arms and wrapping them around his chest, securing them as if they were too impenetrable wrought iron gates, the muscle the metal, the skin the powdered coating. How could one not feel safe behind these arms? Using them in a way that was so very intimate to them both, to bring in more intimacy. To have the back of Kurt's head in the crook of Puck's neck, to have Puck's lips very near to whispering in one fair ear, to have Puck's hands lightly grasping and loosening at Kurt's jumper, alternating, and to have their bodies together like this, Kurt's idea, like the cocoa, like the water, Kurt's idea. What a boy he had in his arms. Bless you Kurt.

"I've known since sixth grade, around the time they taught us sex ed," began Puck steadily. "I don't know how it was with you, but they separated us all, guys in one room, girls in another, talking about the 'feelings' we would be getting and that it was important to express these 'feelings' in relationships, so they made us write anonymous love letters to someone else in the class. No one took it seriously. It was a total piss take. I remember I wrote, ' _I love you from the bottom of my dick_ ' to some chick which she then had to read aloud in front of everyone. It was funny as hell and most of us got detention, but through it all I knew that if I were to write a love letter for real, for someone I'd have 'feelings' for, it wouldn't, you know, be to a girl."

There was a pause, a break in Puck's monologue, as if it had been written into the script for this life story long revelation, there for a reason. There was a risk of swamping Kurt with too much, and it was tempting to. Gushing out words that had longed to escape the confines of a mouth that wouldn't let them out, of a tongue that refused to form them, was ever so tempting, like returning from trick or treating with a pumpkin basket fall of sickening candy which you'd later feast on in one sitting before suffering terrible stomach aches throughout the night, not to mention the nightmares. Puck was best going about this slowly, at a walking speed, establishing the chapters of his life with as much clarity as possible. That was the way.

Kurt, meanwhile, had brought his finger up to Puck's arm and had started to play with the pelt like covering of dark hairs that lay abundant on the skin, coarser and thicker at the forearm. He was careful not to snag them in his trimmed nails but to caress them, occasionally giving them a light tug and bringing about a signal the jock was only now picking up on. That was the thing about coming out to Kurt. The boy knew what to do and say, even if it meant saying nothing at all, like abiding by the 'silence' that had been written in font Courier Typeface in the script, with no lines under Kurt's bold name. 'Carry on', 'continue' and 'resume', were all words that could have been said, but they hadn't. This was Puck's monologue and only his.

"In freshman year of high school, I was good at hiding it," continued Puck. "I know with you Kurt you can't hide that you're gay, but for me, I guess I'm more... masculine, you know? I've always been able to pull off being straight. I've always looked it and I've always liked what they've liked, like video games, sports, cars, beer. I loved it all, all except women, but I had everyone fooled when I started sleeping around. It was only when I starting doing MILFS that I knew I'd become obsessed with hiding what this website called my 'latent homosexuality', and it was pretty latent by this point. Like dormant. I mean, I didn't do anything about my interest in guys at all. I just kept my eyes on the girls and only them... until you came along."

The circles on the jock's arm were quick to come to an abrupt stop with its dark hairs stood tall as spikes, fully erect as if a chilly breeze from outside had managed to seep in undetected like gas. Puck began to worry. Were Kurt's fingers plucking his arm hair out one by one, now huge clumps, his nails digging into the skin to leave scratch marks deep enough to scar? Was the boy about to wrench himself free from the arms that now only felt as if they were squeezing him to death like a Boa Constrictor only to storm from the house? Anxious, Puck made to see Kurt's face, one that now turned to look at his with royal regatta blue eyes that accompanied a sweet smile, one now saying, "Sorry, I was just thinking about what you said."

And with those words, Kurt returned his attention to Puck's arm, this time, prizing the jock's hand from the little nook it had created for itself. And there he played, threading their fingers together, comparing their sizes, stroking the hair on the back and tracing the myriad lines on his palm before bringing it to his lips and kissing it. Puck's heart soared into his mouth just in time to prevent him from making an embarrassing noise, a deep squeak perhaps, if such a sound existed. His breath was reduced to nothing but a flutter as Kurt looked round at him, "Sorry _"_  on apologetic lips that spread wide, but Puck wasn't angry. Even if he was he couldn't have maintained it. With a face that cute, forgiveness would always be granted eagerly.

"Kurt, you were the first openly gay person I'd ever met," admitted Puck quietly. "I mean, I know Berry has two gay dads, but I've never met them, and I didn't even have to meet you to know you were gay when I first saw you, so I guess I'm also guilty of that, but you said it yourself Kurt, you know why that is. It's just who you are, and back then that's why I hated you, because you reminded me of what I was too. Every time I'd see you I'd have to deal with it, so I bullied you, I wanted you out, I didn't want the 'feelings' that I was having for you to grow cause damn were you hot with your stretching and your dancing and your too-pretty-to-be-straight face and to have my first gay kiss with you in gym, man that was awesome."

"Wait... you had feelings for me?"

"Yeah, you were my first crush."

"Really? No kidding..."

"... Sorry for pulling your pigtails, kind of."

"Yeah, I suppose you did."

"I was just messed up," continued Puck, shaking his head. "I hated you, but I liked at the same time, and after our kiss in gym, I couldn't bring myself to ignore you any longer, and even if I hadn't kissed you then, I would have kissed you some other time. Probably would have relied on gay chicken or spin the bottle like the pussy I am, but if I'd known I sucked at kissing I wouldn't have wished for it so bad. I mean, I can't remember all that much from Hudson's party except chasing you, cause you know, I was hammered, but after you said I fucked up your first kiss, it really crushed me. It got to me for days and I wanted to prove you wrong. I wanted to kiss you again, but I had to find a way that would have us all alone together."

Puck was rushing now. He could sense the words spilling out of his mouth at too greater velocity, his aching tongue unable to form them in time for their release, as if he was a child performing in his first school play, suffering the infamous stage fright curse, to be petrified of his inevitable queue, to dispel his lines as quickly as possible, to have a fear of words. Yet it wasn't so much as he was afraid as he was nervous. 'Coming Out' was to be one of the most vulnerable monologues he would ever give, a spontaneous yet unrehearsed speech, unscripted and executed in a manner too colloquial to follow in the eloquent examples of his pretty love letters, but this wasn't for show. This was  _real_. Every word was  _real_. Puck's vulnerability was  _real_.

Stereotypically, vulnerability in itself wasn't associated with masculinity. In fact, it was known to a lot of men to be rather emasculating and in the past Puck had always avoided speaking of 'feelings and shit,' citing such talk as unbecoming of a bad ass. In truth, he'd suffered with vulnerability since his old man had walked out on his mother. The way it had seeped over him upon hearing playground whispers of his 'garbage father', going as far as calling the boy of six, 'the Puckerman Bastard.' He'd mask it, grow to detest it, barely comfortable with exhibiting it in front of his own family, having once screamed at his sister after she'd merely teased him for being 'a big softy,' protesting later that evening into his pillow, 'I am  _not_  weak! I am  _not_!'

However, since knowing Kurt, he'd learned to accept vulnerability, the weakness when around the boy and how his heart had never been softer. It had spoken of liking, of sexual desire, of love. He loved Kurt and with that came the desire to be vulnerable with him, so that the boy could care for him, like he was caring for him right now, exploring this care sexually through the stroking of his arms and the kissing of his palm. Though that was not to say Puck wouldn't return the care, if not more. With his youthful aesthetics and docile nature, Kurt appeared to be the epitome of vulnerability himself and the jock would protect him with the very arms the fair boy had wrapped himself in, those of his strong hunk of a man, his Dark Prince.

"I can't believe I asked you for kissing lessons," moaned Puck. "It was the lamest idea I've ever come up with, but I panicked, and back then I was desperate to see you outside school. I wanted to spend time with you, I just wanted to get to know you, and it would have worked out too if I hadn't dry humped you. Same with the dancing lessons. If my dick hadn't gone 'boing!' every time we'd touch, I wouldn't have freaked out. I was so shit scared I was letting myself get in too deep, that I had sex with Summers. I thought sleeping with a girl would help cancel out all the stuff we'd done, but it didn't. I couldn't even come, and then you walked in on us and the look on your face... It just made me feel so bad, like I'd cheated on you."

Cheated. It's exactly what Puck's face had appeared guilty of when he'd confronted Kurt at the door. Even if he hadn't been, the jock's body had grown flaccid with his skin having lost its arrogant glisten, only that of foul smelling sweat left clogging his pores. For Kurt, though the sight of the sex had disturbed him more, turning round, he could see the conflict in those hazel eyes. So he swiveled in the armchair, lied horizontally across Puck's lap, his legs dangling off the arm rest with his hand now coming to stroke the jock's neck, ruffling the small tufts of hair at the end of that Mohawk in such a way, it had them all on their ends in excitement, pulsing electricity underneath Puck's tan skin from the tip of his head to the end of his toes.  _F-fuck..._

"Anyway, after that, I knew I couldn't go on messing us both around like this," continued Puck. "I had to grow some balls and just tell you how I felt and see what happened, but then there was that whole thing with Quinn and all the crap that happened after, the bullshit they'd say about us, what happened filming Britt's video, it all just got to me and I'm sorry for the way I was with you in that gym class but I had get you alone, I had to get it out there that I liked you, and from then on, I went all out. I wrote you love letters and I fought for you when you were in doubt. Dunno if I 'seduced' you like you wanted. Probably didn't. Had to go and fall in love with you instead... fuck! Forget I said that, Kurt! I don't love you, I take it back, I-"

A finger was quick to land on Puck's lips, silencing him, his voice muffled into a moan, a hum that took time to die. The finger stayed put as if it was happy where it was. In the harsh chilly weather of the fall, moisture in the skin could deplete, but the jock's lips were not chapped with a bleeding cut in the middle. Perhaps not even dry, but fleshy, as if Puck had taken a page of Kurt's book, keeping his lips soft with Vaseline, keeping them soft for Kurt. In truth, Kurt knew Puck had panicked, had denied his love for him out of fear he'd scare him away, but it only reminded him of what the jock had confessed, having had to bury his true sexuality for so long under a stitched-in Letterman jacket that had become his second skin, sick sallow skin.

Premonitions of twenty years from now, Noah Puckerman in his mid thirties and at the height of his male beauty, unhappily married to the nice Jewish woman of his mother's dreams and father to chubby cheeked toddlers he adored, but with a secret life of his own. Lust filled affairs on business trips, the hiring of countless male escorts, gigolos, rent-boys, hustlers, models and masseurs, all behind locked hotel room doors, even those of sleazy motels, 'Shh' signs always swinging on the knobs. Was that the life this boy would have lead? A sordid American Dream no better that his 'garbage father' if Kurt weren't here? It was too painful to think about. Almost nauseating. Had Kurt now determined as he rested his hands on Puck's big chest.

"Noah, you can't take it back, you've said it. It's out there now. Besides, it's not as if I haven't known for some time," smiled Kurt. "It came as a bit of a surprise actually when I first realized it. I remember thinking you just couldn't be, that it wasn't possible, and then I began to wonder if you'd realized it yourself, cause I think the writer can be the last to know. I just couldn't believe I hadn't picked up on it earlier, but by the way you were going about writing every one of those letters, the words you wrote, it was inevitable, and I suppose from then on, every letter you sent out to me could be classified as a genuine love letter, because you loved me, you'd fallen in love with me and it was then that you wrote your best work."

Kurt was making Puck's letters out to sound as if they should be published in numerous volumes, one, two and three, each one holding an aroma of an old book, kept hidden as a secret in a cobwebbed library. All written so well, enough to swoon over, enough to be seduced. Yes. For even though it had been left unmentioned, Kurt had been seduced, a slave to such a titillating act of foreplay, the stuff bestselling Erotica was written from. Instead of a flaccid form between his legs there had been a enlarged swollen length. The organ had pulsed with hunger and desire. Kurt brushing his hand against it, dreamt of Puck brushing his hand against it, and in that instant, like a match flaring up, he would climax, waking up moaning in his bed.

He leaned up to plant a kiss on Puck's cheek, skin rougher than his own though still tasty on his puckered lips, skin now reddening through the tan as Kurt pulled away just in time to see remnants of a blush forming in its place. It wasn't a strong blush, rather faint really, but it was there, and the jock's shy smile had Kurt returning it, resting his head in the crook of a neck that belonged to a handsome masculine boy of athletic build, dominant in nature but with a sensitivity that came from a heart of gold, his type of boy, a type he'd never thought would go for him. Exactly why had Puck gone for him? The question had him sitting up and looking down at the jock with unsettled eyes, almost terrified with a slender body now self-conscious.

"Noah, there is something I'd like to ask," began Kurt. "Ever since I came out I've always worried that I'd end up alone because I'm effeminate. From what I've read up on the gay community, men like me are ignored in favor of those who are more masculine, like yourself. They're hated on all the time, which makes me think. Wouldn't you prefer to be with a guy who you have more in common with, emotionally as well as physically? Someone you could drink beer with over a sports game, someone you wouldn't feel embarrassed to be seen in public with because you'd fear I'd out you, someone with actual muscles who isn't so... 'femme'... I'm sorry. I don't mean to... it's just... how can you be into me, Noah? I just don't get it."

Nothing was said for quite some time, perhaps a minute or two. Kurt's legitimate confession, that had been delivered without exaggeration, had come as a surprise, somewhat dampening the compliment he'd given Puck on his letters, drying up the kiss he'd left on his cheek. The boy was pulling himself away now, no longer leaning on him but still sitting in his lap with a fair face as empty of expression as that of a tombstone effigy. Frankly, it was quite unsettling to behold. With such raw, fevered emotion, bordering passion to have gone into voicing no doubt one of his greatest insecurities only to sit there with a head that bowed, it was as if Kurt had already interpreted Puck's stunned silence as agreement, with every word said correct.

Puck himself was not oblivious to what it was allegedly like in the gay community. On occasions out of curiosity, his browser history, since cleared, had been abundant on research on the rather monolithic, single-minded 'culture', reading the many accounts of those who'd entered from it with hope only to find themselves in a homogeneous, racist, effeminophobic and anti-intellectual stage show, that ostracized those who prided themselves on their individualism if they were not prepared to be dumb, look a certain way, like certain music or be interested in the lives of celebrities, before kicking them to the curb for them to wallow in self-destruction and self-deprecation, rejected by their own community, there to walk as outcasts once again.

What Puck had read had been enough. He had not liked it. He had not been born into the mainstream gay culture and he now had no desire to seek it out, even if it rendered him invisible to gay men, even if it made dating for him in the future that much harder. From what he'd discovered, he would prefer to be an outcast to such a community that frankly didn't appeal to him rather than be in it and he hoped to make this clear to Kurt, a boy who's confidence in himself as well as his appearance as a result of what this culture dictated appeared to been so irrevocably affected that it angered Puck. His fists clenched and his arms tightened around Kurt, pulling him closer with the boy now looking at him with a frown, his blue eyes so beautiful.

As far as Puck was aware of, there were two main types of effeminate men within its subculture of the gay community with exceptions made there and there. The first was like Kurt, sensitive, sweet and soft, with mild manners, witty minds and ears good for listening whilst the second was rather more obnoxious, loud and rude, known as the 'flamer' or 'drama queen', overtly flamboyant and would have a tendency to speak either like a sixteen year old Californian girl or an angry black woman. Kurt's effeminacy had always come naturally. It was never 'put on' and it hadn't appeared as if he had had any qualms about it all, until now. Since thirteen he'd been insecure about it, and the jock was not about to let it go on anymore.

"Kurt, I want you to listen to me and I want you to listen good," began Puck. "I don't have a firsthand experience of the gay community and I don't know how it really is any more than you do. Like you, all I've had to go on is the internet and what people have had to say about it. I've checked out gay forums, gay dating sites but in the end, it's just a culture I don't need. You don't need it either. Why would you when all its gonna do is make you feel bad about yourself? Okay Kurt? I don't want you thinking you're gonna die alone just because you're girly. That's total bullshit, cause there are dudes out there who are into that, okay. There are guys that will think you're cute, that you're hot, crazy hot, and I know... cause I'm one of them."

Everyone had a type, regardless of sexuality, whether they admitted it or not and Puck was no exception. He was gay and into dudes, though his personal preferences took charge from there on, preferences that were so unlike those of so many men in the gay community. He was not interested in their grotesquely hegemonic, hyper-masculine idols, those they bowed to and prayed to at their feet. He'd never lusted over his fellow Titan teammates with their broad shoulders and hands, nor had he fantasized over the male lifters on the Cheerios. His dreams had been of a smooth body, slim and slender, effeminate and soft against his own muscular form, the contrast a real turn on, perhaps heteronormative, but a steamy dynamic no less.

"Honestly Kurt, I'm so into guys like you," continued Puck. "I don't know what it is but you're all babes. So cute I wanna cuddle and spoon feed you ice cream, but so hot I wanna pile drive your tight ass into oblivion. I don't care if you don't like sports, or that people might think I'm gay just cause I'm out with you, or because you don't have muscles. I'm not into dudes who have 'em anyway. Don't want them shaming the Puckerman Guns. Nu-uh. There can only be room for one badass when it comes to a relationship with me, Kurt. Only one, cause I want to be with someone I can look after, protect and be the macho one for. I want to be the alpha dog, the only one to dominate, the only active one... I guess that's just who I am."

"You do realize that even the most effeminate of gay men can make for the most total of tops."

"You're not saying you're a top are you? Cause if you are we may have a problem here."

"Oh no, I'm a bottom all the way. I was just putting it out there."

"How do know you're a bottom? Have you ever done it?"

"No, but I get off on being submissive... 'I guess that's just who I am'," smiled Kurt, Puck's words from earlier fresh and alive on his tongue with the jock watching them roll off with a "fuck yeah" on his own, a smirk on his lips, hazel eyes smoking, yet Kurt's smile was quick to fade as he continued fretfully. "However, after everything you've said and the amount of muscle you're packing under those clothes of yours, you sound like quite the power top and I'm starting to worry whether I'm going to be strong enough to sustain it. I remember when you dry humped me in my bed, I felt so small and weak, that you were so easily crushing me that only another jock you're size would be able to equal you. I don't know. It just... feels that way."

"Kurt, you're not weak, and just because I'm a top doesn't make me a 'power top'," replied Puck. "If and when we do it, I'll be gentle. There's nothing wrong with taking it down slow, and I don't want some jock to 'equal' me either. I've told you this. We look good together and you know it. Have you seen how gay guys always go for others like themselves? Some even look like bros. It's fucking weird. I don't want to be holding hands with someone who could pass for my brother. That's what so good about us. We're balanced, we mesh. I've got this whole Hercules shit going on whilst you Kurt, you're like this French sex kitten that gets me harder than any 'straight-acting' douche bag ever could. I'm not looking for a twin. I'm looking at you."

Oh how Puck was looking at him, eyes ablaze, as a house with every room lighted and the shades yanked up to the tops of the windows. Those muscular arms were tightening around him once again, nearing lips, puckered, and with a wet sound that had Kurt's insides curdling, his skin now with goose pimples all over, it was Puck's turn to leave a kiss on his cheek, to lean back and have the fair boy feel by globe of his ass, something stirring below. Large in size, hot in heat, erotic, now brushing against him. How little time it had taken to grow! Looking at the jock and no signs of embarrassment or humiliation were present. Instead, a loving smile, a warm smile with lips that itched to kiss again, this time on unmistakable red lips.

But not here. Not in an armchair that was starting to numb Puck's ass to nothing, Kurt's light weight now growing on his aching thighs. He needed to move. Get them somewhere more private. They had half an hour left before his mother was set to return and he yet to get his mack on. So it was up in his arms the fair boy now lay in, Kurt squealing in surprise on the sudden ascent with his own arms quick to wrap around Puck's neck, swooning.  _Such a strong boy!_  Carrying him up like this out of the living room and into the hall, up the stairs, now on the landing with a white door at the end that now opened with a twist of the knob and oh! Over the threshold. As if it was their wedding day. Laughter inducing. Silly really. Just Married!

Here he was again. Here, where his eyes shot straight to the bed. That bed. It looked bigger now. There were no writhing bodies, but clean sheets, unkempt and unmade with half the creased comforter dangling off the side, the two flat pillows haphazardly positioned with deep head marks in them, the shape of a freshly bombed hole in the ground. It all spoke of a restless sleeper, of nightmare stricken nights, an insomniac. The only thing missing were spilled pill bottles of Ambien taken at two or three in the morning and moulding mugs half empty with now cold black coffee drunk to wake up in time for school. Such a sight proving the many nights Puck had jumped out of bed to write his next love letter when inspiration had struck.

Moving on from the bed, Kurt now took in the rest of the room, yet like the bed, it wasn't the tidiest, following in the example of the insides of the jock's Chevelrot truck. Puck was quick to self-consciously chuckle out an "excuse the mess" which Kurt lightly shrugged off with a smile, "looks lived in". He took in the black, white and brown color scheme, the modern metal wooden desk towards near the windows, the white cube shelving structure in the corner, the Marshall amp set next to the desk and the many rock, jazz and heavy metal band posters that were Fun-Tacked to the wall, all slightly skewed in angle. Alice in Chains, Nine-Inch Nails to John Coltrane and Miles Davies. All looking at Kurt as Puck lightly set him down once more.

He journeyed further into the room with eyes now drawn to the unorganized, messy looking desk, curious. This was it. The desk where Puck had written every one of his love letters. There was the Metric score printed cutting and work surface mat, stained with discolored wax drip marks and lumps, all dried and crusting. The actual wax candles lay right next to it, along with a lighter and pen, near empty from its golden ink. The good quality white letters and red envelopes that had brought about the signature look of the jock's work were depleting in number, not that much left, just a couple few. In fact, Puck's writing resources were all depleting in quantity and it had Kurt smiling, looking at the jock with that smile before turning back.

"You mind if I take a look at the material you never used?" Asked Kurt innocently, finally taking in the laptop in the center of the desk, it's screen open, but black. He wished to see the words, sentences and phrases that had never been before seen, their original extended lengths before they'd been shortened, that had never made the cut, like deleted scenes from a movie that sometimes were even better in than out, regardless of running time, or disruption of narrative flow or even marketing.

"I guess, but it's all in note form. All bullet points and stuff. Real rough draft sort of quality," replied Puck shrugging as he joined Kurt at the desk. All the things he'd written Kurt to date had been so beautiful that showing him a document as messy as his desk, with a stream of incohesive text and unorganized thoughts would only ruin the illusion. "If you want I can always write it all out in another letter. Might have to write out quite a few actually, the document's twenty pages long size ten font."

"Really? Wow, that must rack up quite a number of words."

"Forty-thousand last I checked. I could write about you all day long."

"And night. You look like you've been losing sleep."

"Inspiration hit me whenever. You sure you don't want me to write this out?"

"No, that's okay. I have enough love letters. In fact, write me anymore and I won't be able to close my bedside table drawer," smiled Kurt as Puck followed suit. It was probable that the jock had not even the faintest idea how many love letters he'd written. He could try counting each one in his head, but he had no interest in it. His focus had always been on Kurt. "It's your material and you can do whatever you like with it. I just thought it would be nice to- hey, what's that?"

"Oh shit, yeah, sorry about that. Just ignore it," rushed Puck. He'd reawakened his laptop with a swipe of his finger along the touchpad only to find the YouTube video he'd been watching prior to fetching the mail, now paused on a man dressed in light beige outdoor clothing, crouching down waist deep in African Savannah like grass, observing what appeared to be a court of Kangaroos. He'd made to close the screen, but a fair hand had been quick to stop him, landing swiftly on the keyboard.

"Kangaroo Dundee," spoke Kurt, reading aloud the name of the video inquisitorially as he leaned his head nearer to the screen for a closer look, now peering at Puck, catching the nervy expression of his face, almost twitchy, as if the way Kurt had read the title out had been accusatory, prior to a beating, 'you dork!' spitting on his lips, or of course the most infamous nightmare of any teen boy, his mother accidentally coming across his secret stash of porn whilst on her laundry rounds.

"It was just something I was watching before you came," replied Puck dismissively, his tone cool like, but not authentic. Hands in pockets, again trying to be cool, but it only came across as embarrassed, shy. "It's stupid, I mean it's just this show on BBC America about a man who takes on three orphaned kangaroos in this shack in the Outlands that he hand-built himself in Australia. I know most of these nature documentaries are totally lame ass, but I thought this was, you know, pretty cool."

"Hand built that himself?... My God."

"Y-yeah, he spent two-and-a-half years working seven days a week to build the sanctuary in 45-degree heat."

"Mmm 45-degree heat. Lima could do with some of that right now."

"Oh yeah, sorry I drank your cocoa. I can make you another one if you want."

"No, that's okay, it's only cocoa. Besides I'm warm now... and you know it's also okay to watch nature documentaries," said Kurt, straightening up as the jock's too cool for school attitude with matching body pose was quick to stiffen, hold, but soften as two fair hands came to rest on his broad chest, those blue looking up at him with concern. "Puck, you shouldn't feel guilty for watching this. I'm not going to judge you. In fact it's a hell of a lot better than most of the stuff out there they call TV."

"I know, I just... I didn't want you to think I was a dork or something," mumbled Puck, shrugging, again as if it wasn't a big deal. In truth, it wasn't, or it oughtn't have been, but the jock was still self-conscious of watching something that was educative, a guilty pleasure that had been left hidden for a reason. Now Kurt was intrigued. He wanted in on this pleasure, pressing his body into Pucks with eyes that shone with bubbling amusement. Puck, a dork? Well, he'd make a hot dork.

"Puck, I've seen you in your glasses. You're fine to watch this," giggled Kurt, patting Puck's chuckling chest assuringly. "Besides, I actually grew up watching BBC America with my mom. She loved them. Although I always wondered if it was the shows she loved or Richard Attenborough, because she loved him too. Had such a soft spot for his British accent and his voice was like 'melting honey' to her ears. I can lend you her DVDs and we can watch them together... in bed if you like... mmm?"

Oh how Kurt was perfect, as if moulded just for him, with hands that spread over each one of his pectorals and a face free from judgement. You couldn't pull that face into an expression of judgement anyway! It was too full and baby cheeked with collagen. No teasing either. So what if Puck's favorite animal was the Kangaroo, with pouches that spouted Joey heads like oversized rabbits. So what if he enjoyed to watch the Discovery Channel from time to time rather than using it all up on killing hoards upon hoards of raged fueled teenagers on Halo, reaching Prestige Mode on Call of Duty or improving his character's skill on Skyrim. Puck enjoyed his pleasures and now with Kurt pumping even more into the air, he couldn't help but smile.

He was quick to seat the boy on his desk chair, swiveling it to face him as he bent down on one knee to take hold of Kurt's hands in his. There he called Kurt an 'angel', the 'angel' looking down at him with wide eyes curious as to why he was doing this. What had come over this jock? What was with the sudden elation? So happy! He was now moreover professing him as an 'angel', now rising and resting his muscular arms on the armrests, hovering over Kurt, near enough to see his pores, so cute, to lick those pores, his alabaster jaw, his neck. Yet instead, an Eskimo kiss was given, tickling the fair boy, setting off giggles that rocked the chair, such a delighted babe in front of him. Puck chuckled. Oh yes, Kurt was it for him. No one else.

Yet out of the corner of Kurt's eyes, movement was seen. It stole his attention, Puck now fighting for it back, his expression hurt, as if he'd been having sex with the boy right here in his desk chair only for that same boy to miss his best moves by watching the TV in the corner of the room. Oh, it was funny he should think about sex, for as Kurt rose himself out the chair to look out of the window, only to gasp, one similar to when he'd walked in on Puck in mid act, sex was all that was met. The neighbors house, their master bedroom, though not in a bed, but on their creaking dresser, one that screamed like a baby bayonetted, going about it unashamed and unabashed in a position that revealed it all - doggy style, panting like dogs.

What was with this room? Twice he'd come in and twice he'd gasped at sex, live performances where he had had front row seats, as if he'd been attending a Royal Command Performance, cheering as the royal couple achieved orgasm. So close did the couple appear to be now, that Kurt felt as though all he'd have to do was reach out and touch them, the man in his mid to late forties who'd lost the lines of youth, but retained the urge of a horny teenage boy, entering the women of same age, a naked woman, flushed and radiant with sweat, platinum blonde hair tousled from the rough love, wetted, slightly parted lips, pale bare breasts, shadowy nipples. Nipples like eyes and the shadowy crevice between her thighs, filled, always filling.

He heard Puck talking, "the Kauffmens", "noisy as fuck neighbors" and "healthy sex life", but it was muffled from the moans several meters away, moans than continued as the jock wove his arms around him, Kurt turning his head to see those bushy brows wriggling suggestively, in time with Mrs. Kauffmen's cries, "Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!" Were those the pleas Kurt was to cry out to Puck? In that messy unkempt bed behind them, this time with him under the jock, those hips thrusting into him, those muscles he'd seen hard at work before, working, the skin sweating, all for him. The explicit show before them was the sign. Now had come the time for them to kiss and hang by their bellies like two sparrows. To puff and blow in the dark...

Kurt hoped one day he would give Puck an Oscar performance in bed. He'd sigh, moan and groan as his fingers would draw through that coarse still-thick Mohawk. Entwined, happy as a seal pup in Puck's tanned muscular arms. In those arms now, he could simulate would it might feel like; sexual pleasure; a slow and then a quicksilver rising to an orgasm. He could imagine long languorous times with Puck in a stupor of pleasure not knowing if it was night or day, morning or late afternoon and when they'd make love, every inch of their sweaty bodies would stick together, before that same climax would come, or something in the pit of his belly, a sensation that would have his mouth open, crying out, rising, then out like a dying light.

Kurt was now pushing Puck back towards the bed with a hand to his firm chest, letting him fall into a seated position, lightly bouncing as Kurt came to straddle him. Sex with Puck. It wasn't something his body was ready for, but it was something to think about. He'd ignore what Santana had said. That Puck couldn't 'fuck for shit'. He knew Puck could fuck and there would be heat. The jock would roll on top of him, kiss him wildly, penetrate him as best he could, make love to him in gasping, lurching, pump like motions, and as he would approach the end, it would shift gear to become a quirky-jumpy-whimpery-quivery motion that would have Puck gasping out, ' _I love, love, love you_!' And this time, Kurt wouldn't tell him to ' _shut up_ '.

Kurt was no longer Kurt now. He was the little minx licking up the shell of Puck's ear, he was the French Sex kitten flipped over on the bed, "meow, meow, meow _"_  on his lips as Puck leaned over him, letting loose a wolf cry and a whistle in response, his tongue soon hanging out of his mouth like a dog's as he panted hungrily, barking, the whole 'hubba-hubba' works. They must have looked ridiculous, but playtime had just begun. Kurt had been seduced and now wished for Puck right there, right now, sliding out from under the jock and retreating up to the head of the bed, Puck following, ready to push Kurt's thighs apart with his knees, to have him tight in his arms like a prize wrestler. Never been in love, oh how he found himself in love now.


	24. Casanova

The premiere of Brittany's music video was by no means a small affair, but neither was it as opulent of those of its Hollywood counterparts, the glorious golden age. Instead, an unceremonious school assembly had been selected, in a gym with poor acoustics and wooden bleachers cramped full with McKinley's eight-hundred student body, teenagers with mournful eyes and acne-raw cheeks that wished not for tedious presentations and notices from their awkward principal, but for entertainment. They wanted it. They demanded it. For a highly anticipated video that had all of its cast in lapses of panic-fugue states even before it had even commenced, bathroom throw ups, wringing hands, the stench of sweat on foreheads, that fear of a flop.

A flop? A flop?! It was not to be allowed let alone afforded where Sylvester's Cheerios were involved. The coach, according to rumors, had been a lot more invested in the project than originally believed, demoting Brittany from director to assistant director and assigning herself the top position. Naturally. She'd been much impressed with the footage - a high-resolution extravaganza of pure synthetic brassiness. Yet allegedly, minor adjustments had had to be made in which she'd ordered certain choreographic scenes to be reshot, had rearranged the storyboard and had chosen out of the hundreds of takes which ones were to be edited down into the glitzy vulgarity that was the Technicolor cartoon of cheerleaders and confetti.

As it was, a large projector screen had been erected on the stage, with the projector itself a few meters in front. Technicians were running wildly around under the strict supervision of Sylvester, careful not to trip on the many wires scaling the long lengths of the floor as if one wrong move could have them electrocuted, their bodies nothing but twitching corpses as the coach would look on. For nothing could go wrong. Just like the test screening of a movie, she was using the students as a preview audience so as to gauge their reactions before she'd post it on the school site, though no questionnaires had been distributed and no form of feedback had been laid out either as if she didn't need the validation or approval from 'stupid kids'.

There were so many faces in this gym, their mouths contorted into conversation, would soon smile as they would watch the video, or so Kurt hoped. Applause, cheers and screams of 'congratulations', they would all act as a barometer of the video's success and Kurt would join his friends in the triumphant moment, just as soon as he could find them. The search for an animal sweater, leopard print leggings, oriental aesthetics and a wheelchair was on as he climbed the bleachers with searching eyes until with a call of his name and a wave from a hand bejeweled in rings, he was brought shuffling along one of the high tiered levels, excusing himself, apologizing, now joining Mercedes as she patted the seat next to her invitingly.

"Where were you?" She asked as Kurt winced out the reason of a bathroom break as he struggled to get comfortable, his bones aching as they dug into the wood. Sitting on hard surfaces always had him thinking he was too bony, with the pain usually alleviated by a jumper for a make shift cushion, though what with him in his Cheerio outfit, all he had was the little fat in his buttocks, pinched together for that barely stuffed fleshy cushion as if he'd been shot with Novocain in the rear. Nice.

"I can't wait to see this video," gushed Tina, her knees bobbing up and down with a smile on her heavily made up face, her Goth face, spirit in such pent up excitement Kurt was reassured to see it. Even though he'd taken Brittany's word that he'd been 'magnificent', he'd not been convinced. In fact, he'd almost decided to wait out the assembly in a bathroom stall, the real reason for his faux trip there, but he hadn't. He couldn't let his own vanity do that to Brittany. She wanted him here.

"Yeah, I saw the screen shots they posted on Facebook a couple days ago and they all look really good, like  _really_  good," professed Rachel, her face too of excitement as if she was about to whip out her phone and show them all to them, to see pictures only meant to tease and entice, to rouse as much interest. "I even saw one of you, Kurt. You were wearing this... what was it again... this bandana ponytail thingy and yoga pants and you looked really cute. I can't wait to see you in this."

"Thanks Rach," smiled Kurt, bowing his head shyly. Despite his initial reluctance to wear the outfit, it had been the only one he'd had to wear for the entire video, even when Brittany had wished for his beauty shots, to capture that perfect glossy cunt-shaped mouth of his that in truth had only been lathered unforgivingly with nothing but rose tinted Vaseline that had always warmed and dripped in the sun, as if he'd just bitten that cunt-shaped mouth, pierced his full lips, made them bleed.

"How long did it actually take to have you all looking the way you were?" Asked Mercedes, a curious smile on her lips, as if she already knew the answer, one Kurt would voice as tiredly as he had done when she'd asked for the number of hours their dance rehearsals had lasted after he'd ruefully complained of his tender aching feet, leg muscles, and cramping calf that he'd caressed so impulsively. "Was it like on a real movie set where it took hours and hours just to get the makeup right?"

Every filming date - which for the majority of them hadn't been on school days - had had everyone arriving on the set in casual clothes, some even sweat pant casual, some an hour late with no traces of makeup on their faces, not even any eyebrows, but in clear and acerbic moods from the coffee flasks in their hands. Yet no sooner would they arrive and it was off to the nearest vanity mirror with half a dozen hands on them as chicken pluckers might lay into a poultry carcass. Hair was shampooed and given permanents, with the shadowy roots of every bottle blonde in the video bleached with peroxide so powerful a fan had had to be used on them to avoid asphyxiation before their hair was rinsed again and fully blow-dried.

Faces had been steamed, chilled and creamed. Bodies had been bathed and oiled with all unsightly hairs removed only to be powdered, painted and even perfumed before being set to dry like laundry. Fingernails and toenails had been painted the brilliant Cheerio crimson to match their neon mouths, false eyelashes had been glued into place with the girls told to 'look up' and to not 'flinch' if they wished not to get stabbed in the eye as the eyeliner pencil had moved dangerously close to their eyes but in fact did not go in, for pressure for perfection - especially for the close up beauty shots - had been painstakingly high with even the sign of subtle asymmetry in the darkening of eyebrows and they had to be removed entirely to be redone.

For the boys, it hadn't been as bad, though hair had still had to be gelled, waxed and styled, their muscles emphasized with copious amounts of bronzer and highlighter, and with the war paint - the design of which had already been created - often relocating either by a tenth of a fraction of an inch or to another area on the body, then prudently restored to its original position. Yet the boys hadn't minded. Girls massaging their scalps in salon basins, dabbing on war paint with damp sponges, it had been on their faces that they'd enjoyed it, except one, and how that one had longed for a fair boy's hands on  _him_ , massaging him, the mohawked jock, stuck with a girl with a shaky wrist as he'd watched the boy from afar, that beautiful boy.

Yet the hands of that beautiful boy had been on him, on the jock the other day. They'd travelled up his muscular, toned arms, squeezing biceps on their ascent. They'd risen to the nape of his neck, stroking the ends of his Mohawk, little tufts of hair in-between adventurous fingers, before those cream shaded hands had clenched at his tee, brushing erect nipples, fisting it desperately for support as the fair boy had melted on the jock's crumpled sheeted mattress, the masculine encompassing odor of an athlete's underarms and hair, under those full lips of one Noah Puckerman, their mouths connected in a make out session that had never been hotter. For the Lion King Puck Fasa had finally lay claim to his kitten. For Kurt was finally his.

_**~ Flashback ~** _

The bed was their playground, soft and cushioned with enough buoyancy for a baby bouncy castle, the sheets as tousled as their hair. The comforter had been pulled back onto the bed, now swirling around them. Pillows had been fluffed and pumped only to get squished again and amongst it all, in the center, were the passionate players, playing to win, playing dirty. They kissed, cuddled, tickled, poked their tongues in each other's ears. Clutched and grabbed each other. If Kurt tried to escape by scrambling off the bed, Puck lunged at him and tackled him with a whoop - "Gotcha again, Baby!" The jock wrestled him back onto the bed into the churned up bed quilt, shouting, laughing, panting and moaning and Kurt, too, moaned, very much so.

Positions were repeatedly changed, like that of restless sleep, as if they were always fidgeting to assume a new one, ones of sex, Karma Sutra style. Clothes remained on except their tops, now either buried in the depths of the bed or lying crumpled on the floor and hands trailed across torsos so very different in shape and skin tone, that had Kurt now admiring the faint glisten on the jock's strong boned face. How exotic Noah Puckerman seemed to him, in his very maleness. His head that seemed, in certain facets of light, like a modeled clay head, with his sturdy chin and square jaws, boyish mouth and fair, frank hazel eyes - more handsome, Kurt swooningly thought, than any boy's eyes he'd ever seen up close, outside the movies.

"You know what I like best about kissing you, baby," began Puck smiling, exuding a warmth that could not be mistaken. He was sitting in the middle of the bed, his legs crossed with his arms weaved around Kurt's waist, the boy straddling his lap, the 'Fantastic Rocking Horse' it was called, fitting, as the jock made to ever so slightly rock Kurt back and forth on his muscled thighs, a "what's that?" on the boy's swollen lips, so comically cartoonish in size and shade, like Jessica Rabbit. "Kissing you."

"Yeah you do," smiled Kurt, before full on his startled lips and Puck was kissing him, gently, no open mouth but sweet, lasting several tender seconds before pulling back to silly smiles, ones that had them looking awfully young, but they didn't care. It was playtime for them. There were no rules as Kurt stroked a finger along the jock's stubbled jaw, rough in texture, but not abrasive, the light grazing ever so satisfying. "I like kissing you too. You remembered everything I taught you, I'm so proud."

"When I'm hot for teacher, I never forget anything they say."

"Interesting line of reasoning. You may be onto something there."

"Sure I am, cause I can kiss you any which way I want and make you beg for it."

"Well... you know, I didn't teach you everything..."

"Really? What is it you didn't teach me?" Asked Puck, his brow furrowing as his rocking thighs came to stop, now motionless, as if the playground ride had ended only for Kurt to hop off of, but Kurt wasn't hopping off. He sat there with his index finger in his mouth, face shy with Puck now the one begging, threatening to tickle him, now tickling him as Kurt's bouts of laughter had him falling back on the bed, the jock now on top, chuckling out his demand. "Kurt, tell me. What didn't you teach me?"

"Just a few more kissing techniques that we never got round to because of that little dry humping incident we had," breathed Kurt, his voice thick with gasps, all words near incoherent as his skin continued to tingle from Puck's fingers as if it was still laughing, each pore giggling. The sides of his waist, his navel, all were sensitive to those fingers that had now settled on either side of his head, the jock now bearing down on him with a cocked eyebrow, smiling. "But I'm not talking about those."

"Then what are you talking about, Kurt?" Asked Puck, his voice now husky, meant to melt the boy underneath, yet all it brought out was a teasing shake of the head, Kurt biting his lip, though not in way of flirtation, but of near fear, as if he was no longer playing in the playground, the one game he was forbidden to play still reluctant to leave those neon lips. Oh, it had Puck excited! It was a  _naughty_  game. They'd be  _bad_  to play it. "You know babe, if you tell me what it is, I might just do it."

"Okay..." replied Kurt in shy amusement, watching as a thick tongue was swiped across Puck's lips in anticipation, only to dry, resulting in another lick, a repetitive cycle that had the jock's hands shifting on either side of Kurt's head, as if kneading thick dough."I'm talking of something that's a new addition to my 'kissing curriculum' if you will, something not so much you using your lips as I would be using mine, and something not so much with us 'kissing' as it would be you... fucking my mouth."

"W-what?" Stuttered Puck, frozen in stance as he stared with eyes so wide they hurt down at the boy who'd since covered his own with his hands. "You want to... blow me?" A rapid shake of the head and a muffled "no" was all he was given as a response. "Don't tease me, Kurt. D-don't you dare tease me." A rubbing motion down below was soon felt, but he didn't need to look down to know it was his hips sub consciously thrusting against Kurt's crotch, the fair boy now squeaking out, "I... I-"

"You do... don't you..."

"... Mmhmm."

"Fuck..."

"... do you?"

What a stupid question. Answered only with the jock's moanful grunt as he snaked a single arm under Kurt's spine, a spine like a bow, curving tight, tighter, Puck lifting the boy to his own chest before shutting him in his embrace so hard Kurt could scarcely breathe, the jock snaking his thick tongue into his, with his own protesting tongue laying there silent. But Kurt was writhing on the sheets, a pasty pallor beauty messing them up even further. He waited impatiently for Puck to unbuckle his belt with a dog like urgency to blow, to suck, to swallow, and to do it at once. Those big hands were fumbling, taking three attempts to undo the metal clasp, before the jeans were off, commando, an erect manhood now in his cunt-shaped mouth.

_**~ End Flashback ~** _

That day, Kurt had given his first blow job with amateur knowledge, messy, with spit having drooled from the side of his mouth, but directed by Puck's hands swimming through his hair, thick fingers threaded in his locks that were often pulled gently, guiding him, setting down a steady pace meant to draw out and elongate every throatful plunge of his smooth turgid manhood so big, and so  _very_  sensitive to the smallest lick of the tongue it had the air decorated with Puck's soft cries, made often explicit with grunts of profanity, as if he hadn't been  _cut_. His lips, mouth, the curve of his throat had all been heaven, a rich heat, sweetly moist that Puck had bucked into again and again and again to come to an end that had come too soon.

Kurt could not remember exactly how long it had taken for Puck to climax. Perhaps an embarrassing one minute to have his lips and chin drenched in the jock's seed that had been so warm, almost hot, as if the fair boy had just raised his head from out of a trough of heated vanilla yogurt, though yogurt bittersweet in taste, salty like, that had just been about bearable upon first try. Puck had meanwhile collapsed back onto the bed like a marathon runner panting and moaning at such a rate Kurt had been made anxious. His lips had been sore, his jaw had ached and his eyes had quickly been wiped from their watering state with a tissue that had soon cleaned him up, a towel for the blissful jock on the bed, a silly smirk on his lips.

Kurt hadn't realized that he'd begun reminiscing of that day, an afternoon that had ended with both he and Puck watching the rest of Kangeroo Dundee together, until the lights were extinguished, plunging the whole gym into darkness save for the light from the projector. He'd missed Sylvester's introductory speech to the video. How both Brittany and Artie next to her on the stage had not been able to get in two words but were merely gestured to by the domineering coach before the video began. That hushing sound silencing stray whispers, the way nobody was fidgeting as if the wooden bleachers were set to give in upon movement and the way their eyes never once blinked, like a test audience of mannequins, watching, waiting.

It should not have come as a surprise that the music video was great, and it looked great too with its footage looking not so much as if it had been edited for days in a secluded sunless editing suite, but had been rendered through a paint factory with every shot high in saturation, so garishly colorful, a masterpiece of vibrant candy imagery, almost fluorescent it made to burn the corneas. For some it hurt the eyes, the way they blinked profusely in the wake of camera flares decorated with shots of flashing bubble gum colors, but Kurt kept focus, admiring the well framed cinematography as well as the use of slow motion velocity that had been intrinsically cut to segments of the music, made to juxtapose with the fast pace of the choreography.

Kurt began to relax. He pressed his knuckles against his mouth and smiled. Why, he'd been so dreading this, and dreading the sight of himself, it was a revelation: what Brittany had said was true, although 'magnificent' was an exaggeration, or so he thought. His movements that had been rehearsed to robot perfection, perfect without spirit, were smooth and full of life, his lips attacked by post production appeared so red, as if inflamed with nothing but crimson lipstick to smooth it down and finally the globes of his ass, so defined, so tight, almost as if he'd been stitched into those yoga pants Brittany had lent him, almost set to rip if he was not to dance in anything but in baby steps, but with a smile on his face, so wide and so happy.

 _Be My Lover_  was about sex. The lyrics were about nothing else, and the beat was about nothing else with Inna imagined in many a mind as a leather clad bad girl, with eyes smoldering in lashings of black as night eye shadow, yet with Brittany's rainbow like influence most evident, such imagery had morphed into a singer bandaged up in a crisscrossing Herve Leger Tamara Swimsuit, neon pink, blonde hair, wading in a liver shaped pool and lip synching - Brittany herself. So sexy she was, droplets cascading down her bountiful breasts, dimpled knees and strong dancer's legs and laughing in such bright blue water like a child at a water park, even when Kurt knew her pubis had burned from that morning's peroxide applications.

Yet not everybody in the gym was smiling. The jocks as well as boys here and there were staring at the screen with fixed grin grimaces, glancing ever so often at the Cheerios who'd been in the video and bringing them into their fantasy, wanting them to see what they were doing with their hands like solitary men at the movies. Kurt couldn't help but think it was despoiling, disgusting, how he tried to fix all of his attention on the music video, try to recall what he'd been feeling - pride? A sense of accomplishment? That was he truly 'magnificent' in his screen presence or even appearance, and ignore whatever it was those boys were doing, slyly, surreptitiously, hunched down in their seats with no respect by public decency or to Brittany.

Kurt wanted to feel the thrill of pride, to smile like everyone else, blissfully ignorant to what some were doing, but he couldn't. He had images of one the jocks close by to Brittany, hunched low and sly in his seat and hissing at her, "Britt! Britt!" The blonde would try to ignore the voices in favor of watching the screen, but would relent an impatient glance only to stare into immature features and mischievous eyes. "Look," the jock would pant excitedly, and as Brittany would stare in shock and revulsion, sat in a paralysis of confusion, he would dare to reveal one of his hands on her, held low so that only his laughing friends could see, shiny sticky liquid on trembling palm and fingers, Brittany crying out in hurt and disgust, running out, crying.

Like a blur, the remaining seconds of the music video passed before Kurt's eyes though greeted with enthusiasm from the first schoolyard chant to Inna's final beg - 'Be My Lover'. Everybody loved it and with the video's end, the final notes dying, the large interior of the gym was filled with waterfalls of applause, everyone who'd been in the video was being honored by their peers, Kurt himself at the receiving end of many congratulations from his friends, yet of these, Brittany was clearly the center of attention. Gaily, she rose to her feet and sweetly accepted the applause like waves washing over her, Artie beside her, grinning. People laughing, people smiling in the midst of such acclaiming applause, except for one boy, eyes downcast.

Kurt's smile was quick to deteriorate as he took in the boy on the opposite set of bleachers, seated on the outer rim of his Letterman jacket clad jock crowd, shoulders hunched, head down, hands clasped together in front of him with his elbows resting on his knees. It looked as if he had been dealt a heavy blow, struck with saddened news that had Kurt wishing to run over to him, to assume that seat empty next to him and to ask what was wrong. None of his so called 'friends' appeared to have noticed, or had chosen not to notice in favor of chatting animatedly amongst themselves, now quietening down as Sylvester proudly ascended the stage, announcing that the video would soon be uploaded on the school site within the hour.

Kurt's memory of the video was now discontinuous as a dream many times interrupted as he continued to look at the boy, the jock, Puck, staring gravely at the ground. No single sequence remained in Kurt's memory except, ironically, the very one the jock and his blonde partner had fumbled through sixty-five legendary takes, the playing field dance sequence, not one of them perfect. For evidence of Puck's averted attention had been obvious. His eyes had never been out front to the camera, but on Kurt, watching the fair boy like the forbidden fruit, yet dancing at the same time, his body tense, his movements wooden, no better than Quinn. Oh, if only he and Kurt had been partnered up. Perhaps it wouldn't have been a disaster.

Suddenly, as if the jock knew at that exact moment who was looking at him, that someone had finally taken note of the way he was, Puck raised his head and looked up to catch those baby blue orbs, his own hazel eyes flickering like a lone flame in the sea of students all around. A blush stained Kurt's cheeks and he made to quickly avert his gaze, though within seconds and he'd returned it to find the jock still looking at him, looking and looking before breaking out into a sexy lopsided grin that spread along that boyish mouth, bearing a warm expression that seared so amorously back at Kurt that it served to evoke a set of fluffy, fuzzy like feelings to nuzzle themselves in his tummy, that tickled his insides into quiet giggles, a sweet smile.

With the ringing of the bell the school was dismissed, and with the rubbing of his stomach from too many butterflies kissing the soft walls of his belly, Kurt rose from his seat, descending the bleachers as if he'd just swallowed many mouthfuls of champagne, some of which was dribbling down the side of his lips. His head was light, his knees were weak and his balance was slightly off, but with a spirit so happy, and all from just one grin! Mercedes was quick to ask what was with him as she lent him her hand for support for the final set of steps, but with a small shrug and one of the widest smiles she'd ever seen spread wide on a face of just a little boy, exposing healthy teeth that voiced, "I just loved the video," she soon let it go.

However, through Kurt's careening haze of happiness, he had not forgotten that sullen expression prior to that oh so wonderful grin, even if he knew deep in his heart that so called 'wonderful' grin had not been genuine, a smile that had not reached those eyes, eyes that had not twinkled, as if no light were in them, as if they were dead. He wished to seek Puck out through the crowd scattered across the gym in numbers, its shape forming a more concentrated cluster by the exit door as students shuffled and squeezed themselves out like herded cattle, yet catching sight of that Mohawk, an easy identifier amongst scalps full of hair, was harder than imagined. He couldn't see Puck anywhere, until warm breath ruffled his neck.

Eyes blowing wide, Kurt caught the scent of warm cognac, black basil and sensual wood emanating from behind and at this, the search was over. He hadn't needed to find Puck, Puck had found him, so close to him he was, close enough to lean his back against that firm chest. A large hand with those fine dark hairs on the back he'd grown to really love, calloused at the fingertips but soft at the moist palm was subtle in caressing his own as it hung there loosely at his side, now reciprocating, both hands playing with each other, all about the touch, the senses, and all hidden from view amongst everyone's close nit position in the crowd, until with a light lean on that chest, a moan and a smile, Kurt walked out the door, never looking back.

**.**

**Glee**

**.**

It was said Noah Puckerman had the most attractive male body in McKinley. A body so profound, one partially and teasingly exposed when he'd clean pools, when he'd lift the hem of his Jersey to wipe at his sweating forehead after practice and after that very same practice when he'd return to the boys' locker room shirtless with that very same damp Jersey slung over his shoulder, a broad shoulder, for Jesus was this broad boy built! So well developed, a body beyond the jock's years, one of a fully grown man, handsomely sculpted with distinct chest muscles, perfectly shaped male breasts and nipples like miniature grapes with a pelt like covering of dark hairs that swirled at his navel to thicken at his groin, and what a groin. Allegedly...

Whether Puck had it in his genes to look this way or from sports itself was debatable, although from the pictures Kurt had seen climbing the stairs of the Puckerman home, the jock had always appeared athletic, pictures that if dictated by Puck's fellow envious team mates would have his sun kissed skin losing its arrogant glisten, that his oh so perfect body would grow flaccid, in his forties, he would be visibly overweight, potbelly and jowls, and in another decade, he'd be frankly fat, only in time to become obese as a balloon mannequin blown up by a bicycle pump in willful mockery of his former self. Yet not one of Puck's future pictures would have him looking that way, only of them, his high school teammates, or so Kurt like to think.

It was after school, an hour or so since students had been let out for the day and he was here at the entrance to the boys' locker room with an ear to the door, listening in for those tell-tell work out grunts, pants, even wheezes, now deciphering if they all belonged to the most attractive bodied male in McKinley. It was hard to tell. Puck worked out in the gym on select days for a maximum of an hour to an hour and half. His timetable had since been memorized by most of the freshman girls who'd crowd round the door to the boys' locker room to sneak a peek at those bronzed goods, to catch a glimpse of the hunk within, cackling like hyenas as they would, a sound Kurt knew only had Puck's balls jumping right back up inside his body.

Kurt was sure to enter the locker room with subtly. He shut the door quietly behind him with feet that treaded carefully on the tiled floor, ridden with extremely diluted mud that flowed through the grooves in the design and kept his breathing silent, even though the air had significantly thickened upon entrance, the humidity, the intoxicating yet sweetly pungent smell of perspiration, sweat fresh from a work out in midsession. Kurt knew better than to barge in unannounced when someone was handling heavy equipment. His father had recounted horror stories of it happening at the garage. Just one slip of the hand and they could find themselves in the emergency room with a severe enough concussion for it to be life threatening.

Near watering blue eyes were quick to suss out a dumb bell in mid use, fit for a lumberjack yet lifted by a bulging arm that only had it looking as if it weighed as much as a crumb from a croissant. That skin was glistening, as if it had been steamed and heavily misted by a thick cloud of water vapor. There was a white, sweat stained wife beater upon that chest, loose grey sweatpants on those legs only to end with black calfskin sneakers on those feet. Upon the wooden bench beside him was a textbook propped up against a red radio, the sound of a football game on its crackling airwaves, set on a low volume, though seemingly ignored as all attention lay on the textbook's contents, how lifting was paused to turn the page only to resume.

Yet, with that mohawked head that suddenly popped up for a scouring look of the locker rooms, Kurt retracted himself from the corner and flattened himself against the wall, now hidden. The sight of those hazel eyes had his wildly beating heart beating all the more, as if like a pace maker delivering electrical impulses to a muscle already working at twice the speed. He could understand the thrill those irritating Freshman girls got by doing this, how it coursed alarmingly fast through his veins, pulsating almost to a sense of nausea that had him tempted to sneak another peak, but why was he doing this? Hiding from the jock as if it was September all over again, at a time where there'd been nothing but such vile hostility between them?

Since his last visit to Puck's, Kurt was nervous around the jock, unsure of what they were. Friends? Lovers? Boyfriends? What with Puck's coming out and the subsequent activities they'd done behind the jock's this time, firmly locked bedroom door, it had not occurred to either of them to inquire how that day had altered their relationship status from what it currently was to something else, something they could have perhaps labelled through awkward stutters and flushed faces to Puck's mother if she hadn't returned home late from work, long after Kurt had left. Yet maybe it had been for the best. The jock wasn't ready to reveal his sexuality to his mother, meaning the only answer might not have reflected what both of them really felt. Maybe.

Kurt could simulate at this moment that over the course of the weekend that had followed that heavy Friday afternoon, the unanswered question that had never been asked had unsettled Puck, that the air was as unclear about their status as it was in this locker room. Sending a text Kurt's way, wishing to ring him up, even knocking at his front door, asking in a voice that would escalate into a tone of panic, his nerves overcoming him, "What are we? I did what you wanted me to do. I seduced you. Now what, Kurt? Now what?" All these scenarios Kurt was now imagining could have been swimming through Puck's mind with each one shot down with the fear of coming on too strong, putting the poor fair boy on the spot, smothering him.

Perhaps this is what had been getting to the jock this morning in assembly, to have brought that look on his face, not even glimpsing up at the screen to catch sight of himself looking as sexy as Kurt had claimed he'd be, or taking into account what some of his fellow jocks were doing with their hands. Again, Kurt could simulate as he leaned against the locker room wall, Puck peering at him through the darkness on the opposite bleachers throughout every one of those three minutes and thirty-two seconds, taking every one of his expressions in as if the jock much preferred to look at the audience reactions of a movie rather than the movie itself, though fixated on the face of only one, until the lights had come up and his eyes had gone down.

Yet those hazel eyes, now weakened from squinting at font so small, were raised once again to see a fair boy standing a few meters away, watching him, his posture upright with a slight bounce in his heel. Judging by the fine state of his Cheerio uniform, he guessed the boy had not just stumbled upon him, but had prepared himself for this foreseen encounter. It had been patted down so well that it was as if it had just come fresh from the laundry mat, with every fiber in the material relaxed following a very thorough steam. It had been freed from stray hairs and dust, the material of his fitted uniform had been well smoothed out from any wrinkles and his hands had been placed behind his back, a smile stretching those full lips to attention.

There was an expression of surprise on those handsome perspiring features, with no movement coming from the jock, as if his workout had been paused, his arm frozen in mid lift with his other hand frozen too in mid reach as he'd made to turn the page. His lips were parted, mouth forced open from heavy breathing that soon exhaled into a voice that lightly panted, "Kurt", before pulling a smile of his own, his whole face blooming like a dew coated flower in spring time. He was quick to clumsily deposit his dumb bell on the wooden bench with a loud  _clunk!_  Where he roughly switched off the radio, knocking the textbook off its support and came up to Kurt on brisk feet, his chest rising and falling with that grin now wide and open.

Silence.

There they both stood, smiling idiotically at each other, both of them nervous, awkward, as if they didn't know how to greet each other, fearing too platonic a gesture would signal an ignorance of what had recently transpired between them, but a gesture too forward and it would render the other uncomfortable, scare them even, make them step back. Yet for Kurt, being so suddenly close to the tall, compact and muscular body, fresh from the work out, Puck's body odor was quick to attack his senses, almost an assault on them, an odor that made his eyes flutter, the smell of Axe spray that had since infused itself with the skin, the smell of swampy armpits and that breath, calming but still exhaling harshly as Kurt continued to look on.

The awkward moment, however, ended as sweat ridden palms hastily wiped themselves on sweatpants before Puck leaned in to peck Kurt on the cheek, one given so quickly it had the fair boy blinking in amused surprise, refocusing his eyes on how the jock was now shifting balance on shuffling feet as if he was a little boy giving a kiss to the other little boy he really, really liked a whole lot. "Oh, come on Pucky, I taught you better than that," said the fairer little boy, giggling at 'Pucky's' adorable dunce like gape of surprise, "French it up for me, lover boi!" And with that, the fairer little boy wrenched 'Pucky' forward by the straps of his sweat stained wife beater and planted a full on smooch on his thick full lips, smiling and laughing as he did.

Puck's eyes were quick to widen in surprise and as if someone had kicked the back of his knees, he stumbled forwards into Kurt, grabbing onto the boy's waist, bringing him into the embrace as Kurt kissed him and kissed him and kissed him! So hot! The jock was now backing the boy up against the red lockers, the clang of metal and shuddering of the structure quivering as they ravaged each other. Kurt continued to smile and giggle, even laugh as Puck's hands wove a ticklish trail along his body, but the jock was in no laughing mood. He had taken this wet ruby mouth that had engulfed his in plump lips and a mouth, sweeter than any cunt, that had wrapped around his cock until every muscle had clenched in near pain; he wasn't letting go.

Tearing his mouth away to have Puck suck on his neck, to decorate it with a heart shaped hickey just as he had done on his hand all those weeks ago, Kurt's closed eyes suddenly burst open upon feeling friction down below, a rubbing. He made to look down, the jock's writhing body making it hard to look for what this was, only to find that his thigh had positioned itself in between those of Puck's, the jock's erection bulging through his sweatpants now thrusting, those strong hips bucking up against him, like having a sexually voracious dog humping his leg, yet soon to stop as Puck looked him over curiously with low lidded eyes, before following his line of sight, cheeks flushing in embarrassment and chuckling nervously as he apologized.

Kurt, however, didn't mind. He pulled at the jock's sweatpants and peered inside at the erection that loved dry humping him so. There he watched it stir as if it reveled in his gaze. At its tip, there gleamed a mushroom shaped head full of moisture, a small stain on his sweatpants, with Kurt now thinking of kissing it all off, what Puck subconsciously demanded, would take him by the nape of his fair neck. Yet an Eskimo Kiss was given instead as Kurt squeezed himself out from between the jock and the lockers and neared the wooden bench, examining the history textbook, turned to a double page spread on Giacomo Casanova, the Italian adventurer, author from the Republic of Venice and history's most famous and notorious womanizer.

External reading, Kurt suspected. They'd not touched on Casanova in class. Then again most famous figures if they weren't known for having blood on their hands were overlooked by Mrs. Hagberg. Yet Kurt was made curious as to why Puck was reading about this man and not so surprised that it be from a history textbook after recently learning of the jock's interest in nature documentaries. He looked up at Puck with inquiring eyes, eyes that followed the finger that stroked along still tingling lips, how that erection was rearranged in those sweatpants and how cloudy orbs had yet to focus, those irises a lighter shade of hazel than usual, but soon darkening to their original tones as they took in Kurt's questioning gaze, nearing him.

"Yeah, my mom was watching a movie about him last night. You know, the one with Heath Ledger," began Puck, clearing his throat upon a croaky voice, one that sounded rather worn out, as if all through kissing and humping Kurt, he'd been screaming his bounteous pleasure. "She had me help her test out the new TV we got over the weekend since I kinda broke the last one. Although I'm pretty sure it was just to watch a film with Heath Ledger in it. She's kinda got the hots for him."

"He was a good looking man," nodded Kurt as he primly took a seat on the bench, his hands in his lap as his fingers idly played amongst themselves. He made to look down once again at the textbook but was distracted as Puck picked up the dumb bell, this time in his other hand, to resume his lifting, those thick fingers adjusted into position, that bicep now bulging so close to him, every vein visible, riveting, as Kurt mumbled on. "So uh... how did you find the film? Was it any good?"

"It was alright, not great, but it got me interested in the guy. I wanted to learn more about him," breathed Puck, recalling how only once he'd read up on Casanova had he then realize how much of disservice the film had been to the colorful life of the man himself, another Hollywood date flick, only with a smug take on Restoration comedy, French farce and vaudevillian slapstick. His mother by no surprise however, had loved it, with her green eyes having dilated to twice their size by the end.

"And what have you learned?"

"That he was so much more than just a guy who loved to fuck."

"He would have led a rather unfulling life if he wasn't."

"Guess that means you're not one of those guys then, huh?"

"No, I've always been more of a  _get_  fucked kind of guy," purred Kurt, watching as Puck's bushy unkempt brows now wriggled suggestively, accompanying a rich round of, "yeah you are, baby," as he resumed his lifting, though with that lopsided smirk ever present as Kurt smiled heartily. "No but in all seriousness I don't think I'd be promiscuous, even if I could be, and I don't think it would be so much my style as it would be me growing an emotional attachment to the person I'd be sleeping with."

"How do you know you would?" Asked Puck curiously, observing closely as Kurt made to ponder the question, those blue eyes now averted in thought. He'd never had sex. That much was for certain, but he knew if he were to have it, it would be with someone he'd be comfortable with, who knew what they were doing, and preferably with someone he'd care about, for he was into romance, and not one night stands of a 'wham bam thank you mam' nature. No. That too was also for certain.

"Well, I can't say for sure that I would, there are many variable factors I suppose, but for now let's just say if I was to sleep with you," proposed Kurt, Puck's face jerking slightly with eyes blown as he smiled at the thought. "Assuming all goes well and we have fun, I have no doubt that my emotional attachment to you would grow, and since I already have a crush on you, it would grow all the more. I just don't think I'd be able to walk away like that as if it were some animalistic act... would you?"

"Well, seeing as, you know, I'm in love you and all, it's not really fair to ask, is it," murmured Puck, ceasing to lift as a silence was quick to descend upon them both, Kurt now smiling tenderly at him. "But you know I slept around and cause I'm gay I didn't feel anything beyond knowing when a chick was hot. If it had been with dudes, it would have been different, but I don't know if I would have grown feelings for them. Would depend on what I'd be looking for; a good fuck or something serious."

"And what are you looking for with me?" Asked Kurt, his fingers digging into his thighs, sure to leave noticeable dents in his uniform as he kept eye contact with Puck, the jock staring at him. For the question had been asked. It was out there to be answered with a set of words just ready to be voiced. Yet they remained inside, as if Puck were rearranging them in his mouth, now leaving Kurt to furrow his brows as the question was left to hang like floating water vapor in the quiet air.

Like Casanova before him, the name Noah Puckerman was synonymous within the halls of McKinley with 'womanizer', that spoke of flirtations, bedroom games and short-term liaisons with more than half of its female student population. His face, the face of male teen promiscuity. That bone structure, that jawline, the mapping of seduction. To many, the idea of the jock as monogamous was to laugh. It was simply not conceivable. To have Puck as anything but a walking talking blow up doll with a bad attitude was not recognized, even when that same blow up doll had since changed his ways. Again like Casanova, he was more than what he was well known for being, a so-called 'womanizer'. The fucking idiots. The lot of them. He was gay!

Yet even in the gay community, a community unflatteringly stereotyped for its rampant, morbid promiscuity, Puck would be forever hounded by the image he so longed to forget. His hard sought after masculine disposition and ripped physique, the ultimate jack pot, would have him seen as nothing but a piece of meat with 'Hunk' tagged to his bronzed chest, as if he were freshly cut only to be displayed in a butcher's shop window, every stretch of skin put on show for everyone to see, to be past round a circuit that would ridicule monogamy, told to spread the seed like a man. To fuck and to fuck and to fuck. It was only natural, with the final words, "Just be sexy. We like it like that," they would say flatly. "It's what you do. It's all your good for".

For Kurt, though he'd voiced this vision to Puck, comparing it to a wake of scavenging vultures picking clean a rotting carcass, it had not scared the jock, hadn't even unsettled him, dismissing it as nothing he couldn't handle if were to enter the gay community, which he'd since expressed his uninterest in, but with this decision to isolate himself from the culture came his fear of winding up single forever, to transcend Kurt's vision with his own, to have everyone believing him to be 'straight' due to his masculinity, to have to reject countless girls with their faces made slack jawed when he'd tell them. "You don't look gay," they would say, and to have gay guys believe it too, even those like Kurt, passing him up without a second glance.

"Sorry dude, I'm not into the whole muscle man look". Rejected. "Sorry man, I only date twinks, no hunks". Rejected. Puck rejected. Those words piercing him. Although it wasn't common, it wasn't unheard of that men were rejected for being too threatening in build, too intimidating to relax next to with some even rejected on the basis that they were too masculine, believed to be 'put on,' that if they wished so badly to act straight then they might as well be straight. Yet like Kurt and his effeminacy, Puck was not putting anything on regarding his masculinity, and like Kurt with his fear of having no gay man finding him attractive because he was effeminate, Puck had surprised the fair boy with having shared similar insecurities.

" _I didn't know your type in guys, so I guessed you'd be into muscle_ ," Puck had mumbled, " _but then you went and said you weren't into me anyway which had me thinking my guns scared you, that you didn't like jocky guys, but those prissy private school kinda guys slimmer than me who wear fucking bow ties and slacks, and who aren't closet closes who've never beat you up, who know about fashion, and like all the same stuff you like, stuff I know fuck all about and-_ " He'd breathed hard, only to calm, only to whisper, " _I love my guns and I love being manly, but I was scared I wasn't your type. That I'd be no soft fem boy's type, that you'd all run from me."_ Pause. _"... so I guess we both had the same fears, huh?"_ Kurt had laughed, nodding, Puck kissing him, smiling.

"You wanna know why I looked the way I looked in assembly this morning?" Puck now asked, lowering the dumb bell to his side as Kurt's 'what's wrong?' like expression soon had him talking. "It's because Brittany's video reminded me of how for the past few months, I've been looking at you from afar cause there's always been something, and even after everything that went down the other day at my place, I couldn't believe I was still looking at you from afar, as if nothing had happened, and I didn't want things for us to go back to the way they were. I wanted us together, in this for real. I wanna date you, I wanna have sex with you, I wanna love you where I can hold you in my arms and I look at you up close. I... I just want you, Kurt."

"... me too."

"You do?"

"Of course I do Noah, you know I do."

"Well, you never said anything."

"Neither did you," smiled Kurt, Puck's nod accompanied by a small smile as he resumed his lifting, albeit very slowly. "Noah, that day was about you. You had deep stuff to let out and even if it had occurred to me to inquire if it now meant we were together, I wouldn't have been about to ask right after you'd just come out for the first time. That wouldn't have been fair on you. Besides, I didn't know exactly what I wanted from all this myself. I needed some time to, you know, think about it."

That Friday evening, he'd indeed thought about it. He'd examined the hickey on his fair neck, wiping his face free from tinted moisturizer Puck had smudged from his kisses, whilst all the while inspecting that hickey that had had him pondering relationships. He already knew his stance on them for those at his age, believing co-dependent teens to have an innate aversion to being single, as if as soon as they'd grow pubes they'd rush off to have their first kiss and have sex, because of course everyone knew all the 'cool kids' weren't virgins. Yet the faze wouldn't last long. After they got what they wanted, they wouldn't want it anymore, and there the teens would be, missing their freedom filled single lives like the kids they were.

A cotton pad drenched in toner had been swiped across Kurt's washed face as he'd then pondered a possible relationship with Puck. He would have thought it would be one kept under wraps, closeted from everyone with nothing exposed out in the open, every touch hidden, with every kiss shared behind a securely locked door, all as if it was a game they'd be playing, a naughty game. It would be the jock's preference and Kurt would understand for even though he was out and healthily in touch with his sexuality, Puck was new to it all, as if he was a little baby bird leaving the nest. He needed to connect with his sexuality, not suppress or ignore it, but to own it; it was his, his own, there to be explored emotionally as well as sexually.

Having never once incorporated his homosexuality into feeding his 'needs', masturbating over women had been the way, self harm Kurt had thought it upon learning Puck wouldn't stop until he'd reach orgasm, which allegedly could last as long as a full forty-five minutes. By the end, pain. His penis would fall flaccid and limp, chafed to a point of inflammation as if it had just been wrung and throttled and strangled. Too painful to pee, too painful to wear underwear. His body would recoil at its own touch and tears would fall. Puck would wince, scream and cry, only to break down into sobs at his desk once he'd finished. It was story of a poor boy who'd tortured his body just to fit in, and it had pulled at Kurt's heartstrings until they'd all snapped.

It was as if McKinley had invented 'Puck'. The punkish Mohawk was the school's idea. The change from the biblical name. The urban slang bullshit. First seen in the parking lot on his first day, a "badass" in jeans low enough to see the crack of his ass. No style, but God was his body mature as fuck. The skin wasn't perfect. Had his chest and back raw with cystic acne. Fucking disgusting. Had it all dried up with those acids that stank the place out. The scars were lasered away. He was made to tan, to work out, to get the ladies, but then he told them he was a homo. He was told to shut the fuck up about it. 'Puck' was a robot designed by McKinley. Too fucking bad they couldn't patent it before that pellagra-pale cock sucker ruined everything.

"Kurt?" Voiced Puck, evoking a mumbled "Huh?" out of Kurt's parted lips as if he'd just woken up from deep sleep, there to stare dazedly at the jock through eyes that were at their most beautiful, the lightest shade of slate-blue that somewhat eased Puck's uneasiness. The boy had just left his words hanging with no conclusion, the jock now reminding him as Kurt refocused his attention. "You said you'd thought about what it is you wanted from all this... and then you spaced out."

"Oh, sorry," apologized Kurt, sighing out a breath of amusement as he smiled back up at Puck. "Well I did do a lot of thinking and I know what I want out of this..." He picked himself up from the bench and retreated a few steps back, coming to stop a few teasing meters away that had Puck watching him on every turn, how that form-fitted uniform of his now stretched over such a slender shape and with a raw, seductive yet adolescent voice, Kurt spoke again, now beckoning. "... come here."

The dumb bell was slowly deposited, placed this time more gently on the bench as Puck walked the short distance over to him, wiping his hands once again on his sweat pants as he now stood before him, eyes expectant. Measuring up to an impressive six foot, the average height for a fully grown man, the jock was a tall boy, taller than Kurt's shorter height of five foot ten, yet for Kurt, it afforded him to rise on his tip toes to whisper into the jock's ear, lips that brushed against the flesh, breath that tickled as if the boy was about to poke his tongue into it, just the way Puck liked, though it was the words that had Puck's lips widening into a smile, his arms soon wrapping themselves around that slim waist, fitted so snug against him.

There Kurt stood, watching as his words took effect, washing over Puck as if the jock had been drugged with a candy colored happy pill that had him now unbalanced on unsteady feet, thick arms tightening, almost painfully so. The fair boy could now see every one of Puck's pores, larger than he'd realized and how they all secreted that oil that brought his tan skin that sexy glisten, or perhaps it was sweat, he couldn't tell, but it smelt manly. Puck was manly. He smelt like a man, with a large hand that now brought itself to Kurt's hair, calloused fingers running through it without snagging themselves along the way, those clipped nails never once catching on, for this hair was as smooth as silk, perhaps over conditioned with a softer noted scent.

"Mmm, you know babe, tempt your  _boyfriend_  anymore with your sex pheromones and I'll have to finish off what you started," murmured Puck huskily, waggling his brows above eyes that had dilated beyond their hazel boundaries. And then they were kissing, the heat thrumming in Kurt's blood, now squealing into the jock's mouth as Puck lifted him up and wrapped those legs, dancer's legs, around his built hips, there to lean him against a locker, there to kiss him tenderly and in childlike hope.


	25. American Beauty

No one was to run in the library. Even power walking was discouraged. The tall bookcases, stacked with books so heavy the shelves they rested on bent in the middle, as if concaving to the point of snapping, were perilous to approach, as if one push could have them teetering only to fall against each other in a domino effect, book dust thick as soot in the air. Kurt made sure to slow himself down from his run before he entered, haphazardly brushing his hair back into place with a quick stroke of the hand as he opened the glass door, how it screeched on hinges set to disturb everyone, an unpleasant take on the bell chime of a cute little book store, yet ignored by the selection of stray students scattered about with not one single head raised.

A history textbook was to be returned, one covered in that protective plastic covering that stuck uncomfortably to the inside of one's palm, as if holding onto leather on a very hot day. Late it was, only by a day, but unacceptable library decorum according to McKinley's librarian, a middle-aged ethereal-looking gaunt-faced woman with fine plucked brows and eyes so akin to Greta Garbo's the resemblance was striking, very beautiful, though shaped slit like as Kurt neared the desk, returning the textbook that had not been taken out under his name, but under another name, a boy's, one that had the librarian's golden aged Hollywood eyes rolling as she recalled the trouble she'd gone through with that boy, with one Noah Puckerman.

The jock had never once stepped foot in the library. Made evident by the way he'd traipsed blindly around every bookcase for more than an hour, as if he'd entered a maze, a labyrinth, crouching and shuffling his way through it like a crab, his head titled to the side as he was made confused by the jumbled alphabetic order, searching for a history textbook, one to replace the one he'd 'lost' for World History. He'd not been willing to ask for help out of pride or even fear as the irritable librarian had glared him down impatiently. She'd wished him to leave and be done with his search, but he'd remained just as clueless as ever until she'd found the silly textbook for him, stamped it, before she'd sent him off on his way with a push to the back.

The sight of that occasional facial twitch and those peculiar shifting eyes had had Puck asking Kurt to return the textbook for him, with Kurt having agreed without question, or suspicion of the jock's unsettled nerves when around their librarian, for this had been the first little favor asked of him by his boyfriend, for he had a boyfriend now. One he'd kissed in the boy's locker room, had his legs wrapped around strong hips with football playing hands gripped at the globes of his ass as if gripping actual footballs. The lockers behind Kurt's back had shuddered upon his boyfriend's thrusts, bringing them both to orgasm through frottage. Moaning, whimpering out each other's names, obscenities and leaving them panting like slumped dogs.

The memory of those pants, so hot, and so fiery against the skin enough to burn were rekindled as Kurt, making his way out of the library, overheard the unmistakable sound of kissing, the sound of mock-resisting lips opened by a tongue pushing deep into a mouth, the sucking, the clutching. It was enough for him to follow it, for it was known that the most secluded area of the library lined with books nobody ever read was a popular hotspot for young couples and sure enough, poking his head around the corner were the perpetrators, both Asian, both Mike and Tina, their clothes half off with a button shining on the floor, perhaps ripped off amongst such spitfire like action that had Kurt giggling where he stood hidden, hand over mouth.

They were quick to spring apart upon sight of him, as if there'd been a bomb in between them, their spluttering mouths still thick with saliva, drizzling down their chins that had Tina now coughing violently enough to have the entire library's attention trained towards the back bookcases. Her eyes were watering, her hand was on her throat, with Mike patting and rubbing her back as he fetched them both their clothes with hasty, near shaking hands. Yet Kurt meant them no harm. It wasn't as if he was the librarian. Perhaps they'd projected her face onto his out of fear, those seconds after the sight, but still his lovely face with those even lovelier eyes meant no harm as he crouched down to crawl towards them, a guilty smile pulling at his full lips.

"Sorry guys, I didn't mean to sneak up on you," apologized Kurt, his voice now reduced to a mere whisper and no louder, no harsher than a softly spoken whisper. He sat himself next to Tina, up close where he could now see the swelling of her lips, slight redness around the mouth, even a hickey, though near her collarbone, easily concealed as she harshly pulled on her gothic waistcoat, asking alertly, "Is the librarian around? Is she coming?" But the fair boy shook his head, still smiling away.

"No, you're safe. She was still at her desk when I came to return a book just now," replied Kurt as he brought his knees to his chest, careful not to rest his back on these perilous bookcases that loomed over them ever more dangerously, set to bury them alive with those books, their insides, their guts. "Although kiss any louder and she'll be over here for sure. So you might want to reduce suction in the mouth, but keep your lips tight. It will reduce noise and keep saliva from dripping everywhere."

"Wait, how do you know this?" Asked Tina, the first moment in which she appeared genuinely calm with curiosity as both she and Mike eyed the fair boy beside them, how his eyes flittered between they're assessing gazes as if he'd been accused, either guilty of having spied on them longer than they'd realized or that his plump moist mouth had been getting some of its own action. The image of Kurt's red lips swollen from a kiss into pillows too puffy they might burst, the lucky boy, but who?

"Oh, it was just an observation, but if you like noisy, go for it," smiled Kurt, shrugging, with blue eyes shifting uneasily away as he shuffled into a new seated position, one that would alleviate the sudden dull ache numbing his buttocks. As if he was going to tell them how he truly knew of such things, pathetic to hear how he'd researched it online, undisclosable to reveal whom for. Instead, he pursued a query occurring right then, "Actually, how long has this been going on for? Are you guys..."

"We are," beamed Tina, locking her hands with Mike's as they reflected their smiles, both of them poised and so romantically entwined in their stares it was as if they were one of those idyllic couples enjoying a picnic of tangerines and shiny purple grapes on a hill, one with a view, one overlooking their little kingdom. "We've just been holding off telling anyone. They all have these racist assumptions that just because Mike and I are Asian and just because we're friends means we're an item."

"Well, you sure proved them wrong," joked Kurt, enough light sarcasm in his tone to have the couple blushing apart, yet with their hands very much still locked. "No, I'm happy for you guys, although I have to confess I did see it coming, and only cause Mike wouldn't stop staring at you in his first Glee practice and you Tina, the way you dragged me to that football game so that you wouldn't be all alone to catch sight of those abs from your Magic Mike here, which I have to say are very nice."

"Thanks," smiled Mike though fighting through a blush at the news of which his eyes had lingered on in that practice, had Tina smiling at him warmly as she watched it spread, each pigment rosening, though it was unusual to see on olive toned skin. It must have been a strong blush. Kurt let forth another guilty smile, one that froze in place however as Tina now turned to him saying, "But Kurt, you have to promise not to go telling anyone. We can't have Rachel finding out until I've talked to her."

"Don't worry, I won't," assured Kurt as he recalled the day Rachel had advised everyone against forming romantic or sexual relationships within the club. Such relationships could allegedly create difficulties for those involved and given the level of trust and sensitivity needed to practice, including the intimacy of the work, romantic relationships could be problematic if ended on bad terms, creating an adverse effect on number selection as well as having a negative impact on the whole group.

"Thanks, I was going to tell you but now you know, which is funny really because we didn't even plan on doing this, I just came in to help Mike find a book and we kind of wound up here," replied Tina, both she and Mike nodding as Kurt was quick to dismiss it with a quietened laugh, "Uh huh, that's what they all say." Yet Tina was indignant. She looked at him with wide eyes that protested profusely, though Kurt knew that the longer she stuck to that construct, the more convincing a lie it was.

"No seriously, we were talking about who we thought was the hottest in our year, to who was in the hottest relationship in our year to- come on Mike, tell Kurt about the discussion all the boys were having in the locking rooms the other day about their girlfriends," encouraged Tina as she lightly nudged her shoulder against that of her boyfriend's, though Mike appeared reluctant, as if now ashamed that he'd let her in on private bro talk, and how he'd let it all out just for the promise of a kiss.

"It's okay Mike, you don't have to tell me. I'll just wait until they boast it out."

"Yeah see, they're going to boast it out anyway, so you might as well tell him."

"Tina, you should be admiring your boyfriend's loyalty, not trying to break it."

"I already know of it, but I want him to tell you. Please Mikey, pretty please."

"Most of them are dating girls from outside school, so they don't count," dismissed Mike, relenting into his girlfriend's pleas, so adorable the sight appeared to juxtapose the 'kawaii' cute look on her face to the rather sinister Victorian like nature of her gothic Lolita attire. It most certainly caught the eye. "All I can really remember is that Donovan Kane is now dating Samira Romy, Shawn Tyler is dating Tea Diserée and Puckerman... he's um... he's dating someone new from inside school as well."

"But we don't know who do we," mumbled Tina, brows drawn down as she bit on the inside of her mouth, chewing with eyes of concentration as if she were solving a maths equation, one she couldn't solve as Mike shrugged on, "Nope, he wouldn't say anything, only that he's quit sleeping around, that he's proper serious about this girl and that he wants to take it slow cause he thinks what he has with her is real, and I don't think he was lying either, it all sounded pretty genuine to me."

"Did he say anything else?" Asked Kurt quietly, almost timidly, as if like a child wishing to say something with the fear of being scolded for doing so, though Tina encouraged the question with a "yeah," looking once again over at Mike as he vaguely went on. "I remember the guys thinking he was whipped, one of them even said he was in love, I mean, they were all joking around, taking the piss, but in their defense, he did look it. It was in his eyes when he spoke of her, you could just tell."

"How did he speak of her? Maybe what he said could help us guess who this girl is," proposed Tina enthusiastically, yet Mike shook his head, his shoulders once again shrugging. "Well, that's the thing, he didn't say how she looked at all, only that she's a sweet and soft kinda girl who he's had a crush on for several weeks, or several months I forget, and that she's prettier and hotter than all the girls he's dated combined, and that includes Santana, so this girl must be something."

"Oh, I am so glad he broke things off with her," confessed Tina, relieved as a frightened child would be after watching a gory slasher movie as punishment. "She really made him into a total asshole, and I know that's harsh to say cause she's in hospital and everything, but I'm telling you, when she gets out, she's either going to have the coordination of Finn Hudson, or she's going to find Puck's new squeeze and rake her throat open with those acyclic claws of hers. It's not going to be pretty."

"Are you kidding? If she lays even a finger on that girl, Puck's gonna land her back in the emergency room, even kill her, I don't know," replied Mike, his last words, the word 'kill' ringing oddly in the air, like damaged wind chimes on the verge of snapping loose, almost as if he believed what he'd said himself, that word, despite how extreme it sounded. "Seriously, you do not know how taken with this girl he looked when he talked about her. I'm starting to think he really is  _crazy_  in love."

"Or maybe he's just crazy," snorted Kurt, rising to his feet, though stumbling on the ascent as he shook his left leg awake from sleep. "I don't know. If he is in love, good for him. It'll be nice to see him thinking with his heart instead of his dick, and if that turns out well, then I just hope whoever this girl is doesn't take it and grind it into a million pathetic little pieces because if she does... well... I hear some can't be mended once they've been broken. They stay that way for the rest of their lives."

"You better not break my heart," warned Tina lightheartedly as she brandished her finger over at Mike, moreover wagging it in front of his smiling face as he brought her in for a reassuring hug that swayed so perilously close to the bookcases Kurt feared a collision, a crash, yet it was overcome with the fear of his own words, how like Mike's, they withheld an air of truth about them, the ugly truth. So tragic to roll off the tongue it hadn't tasted nice.  _I better not break Puck's heart_. He better not.

"Well, I better get going. The bell for homeroom goes off in fifteen minutes and I've still got an assignment to hand in or I get a fail," began Kurt, his eyes rolling like loose marbles as he patted his Cheerio uniform free from dust. Freshly laundered it was. Had to be. Semen stains had littered the crotch, looking as if someone had sneezed badly on it, the work of a jock, though it was his own semen that had had to be removed, and quite a lot of it. Those thrusts, so rushed, so relentless.

He and Puck had an understanding; that their relationship remain closeted for the present time. It was a condition Kurt had agreed upon, and with so much ease, for he'd predicted this, even the gratitude that had flooded Puck's eyes, yet the guilt swimming amongst it all like black dye in water had surprised him. His hands, his fingers slender enough to snap like the stiff joints of a doll as they'd been taken into those of such size and warmth had been the precursor to a speech of promises. They were words similar to those of a man who'd nothing to give a woman but his heart, for Puck had nothing to offer Kurt as far as holding hands in public was concerned, but alternatives, streams of them, a list that had had the fair boy smiling.

Their bedrooms would become their pillowed kingdoms as if like children building fortresses out of soft bedding. To watch their own movies with their fingers sticky with butter popcorn, licked off by the other with no one to thump the back of their seats from behind if Kurt were to suck Puck's finger like a lollipop. Dinners of spaghetti and cherry cobbler, readings and reenactments of Puck's letters, sharing family photo albums, sensual dances, fetishes fed, talking, laughing, playing all the while. And at night, pomegranate plum candles would flicker as whispered secrets would fly under a single transparent sheet, naked in their youth with hands that would trail over each other, learning of each other, kissing each other, making love.

Kurt would never appear on a mobile snapshot, exhibiting his body like a high price whore for the jock's friends to gawk over, just like all the other girls before him, like all the other mothers. Their hair would always tumble sensually across the pillow, eyes sleepy with the tips of their tongues showing between swollen lips, like a clit showing between lips of the vagina, erect nipples and naked, all post coitus, and all for the that impressed look on his friends' faces, as if Puck had done it all for them. Yet every snapshot had been deleted right after, with times Puck had wished to burn the very phone he'd used to take them with. And now, with no snapshots had signaled a change in him to his friends. That this 'girl' was his to look at, and his alone.

To most misogynistic men, women were jokes. The female body was a joke. All this fecundity. All this beauty. The aim was to drive men wild to copulate and reproduce the species. Kurt's own body was a slim casing of lean muscle in a soft slender physique, resemblance to a fit prepubescent boy that at his age would only be labeled as 'underdeveloped', 'scrawny', even 'gaunt'. The gender neutrality of it was androgynous to some, believing a high dosage of estrogen and he'd have bouncing breasts that wouldn't be disproportionate to his frame. Though Kurt was male. Proudly so, and though upon sight a pang of lust would rise within Puck, he'd respect Kurt and his body like any other boy's, treat it more delicately, but never as a joke.

Spoken with such sincerity, a Shakespeare-esque intensity that professors at the The Actor's Studio would nod impressively at, Puck had let it be known that he'd never raise a hand to him, never believe him to be less than his equal, even at Kurt's most vulnerable, naked to the bare soles of his feet, wishing to be dominated, his very beauty suggesting pathos, Puck would always treat him well, and Kurt believed him. For those muscles, those 'guns' would bulge in anger only to protect him from danger, to hold him safely when running into a deep hug, and to aesthetically please him to arousal, to have fun with, having fun with Puck. No worries, no regrets, just good old fashioned, eager to please, do what I tell you to, Eagle Scout fun.

.

**Glee**

.

It was evening, and it was in Kurt's bedroom that had a comforter slightly disheveled with deep creases and pits where feet had dug themselves forcefully into, the toes curling. Towards the foot of the bed lay a laptop, a picture of a good looking muscular boy on its screen set so bright it rendered the pale skin of the boy in front of it luminescent, giving the suggestion of being hot, catching the beads of perspiration at the ruffled hairline, his uncanny eyes of the translucent blue of a churned winter ocean slivering ice accompanying a languid somnambulist set of movements that spoke of something certainly sexual in nature, something this boy had done just now without shame, and without regret. That face, so satisfied. His body spent.

Stroking his nipples and palming himself to the thought of Puck had been his idea of bedroom pleasure for several weeks now. They would be long drawn out sensual affairs that would have him circling and caressing himself, a hand against the pit of his belly, his groin, hands so soft Brittany had always known them to be ideal for self-pleasure, as if Kurt wore gloves full of Vaseline, not only for himself but for happy times of others. With an image his boyfriend had privately gifted him in all his tan naked glory, as if Puck had been watching him, as if Kurt had been soiling himself in front of those hazel eyes, like a child might do, or an animal rubbing itself, those soft hands had only to pump him until muffled screams had deafened his pillow.

His flagrant body, the way he'd flaunted his sexuality had left him thirsty, almost parched, yet the glass he'd drained prior to pleasure, once filled with chocolate milk was empty, nothing but a light brown film that coated the inside, the remnants drizzling somewhat. The sight had him all the thirstier. He was somewhat cool now with his skin no longer adhesive to the touch yet the bed itself remained warm from body heat, a difference from the way it had scorched underneath his skin at the peak of pleasure. He'd since cleaned and gussied himself up, though he still looked as if he'd been with a man, ravished and lazy, as he swiped his glass from the bedside table and headed for the stairs, only to halt at the sound of a faint tapping.

The room was dark with little illumination except for Kurt's laptop and the moonlight streaming in through the window. It was out of preference, offering the fair boy a greater sense of privacy, as if darkness was the teasing veil to his boudoir though at this present moment, it only made it all the more difficult to determine the origin of these incessant faint tappings, sounding in short episodes, though coming out strong, coming out stronger, too strong to come from the beak of a pecking bird, but more from a hand, a set of knuckles, until Kurt caught sight of a silhouette suddenly appearing at the window, blocking out the moon's neon rays and eclipsing the room into darkness, now too opaque a veil that buried Kurt, drowning his heart in fear.

The glass in his hand was quivering, whitening his fingertips from the pressure he was exuding to such an extent, even if he were to break it, no single shard would embed themselves deep enough into his palm to seep blood. Who knows if he would even scream. All attention remained on the shapeless silhouette beyond the window, how it wavered somewhat, stumbling, until it was gone. The moonlight's rays were quickly restored, but the sounds of foliage rustling kept Kurt unsettled. That silhouette had had weight to it, broad in width and tall, too big for a woodland creature, almost anthropomorphized to the point it was human, with real knuckles, a real hand, the fear rushing Kurt over to the stairs, climbing until his sight went black.

Crash! The glass in his hand smashed to the floor with its shards flying all over the now stained step in front, scattering droplets of chocolate milk amongst broken pieces of glass that glinted like lethal diamonds in the moon light now near nonexistent. For the silhouette had returned, closer this time to the window, enough to see the breath coating the glass, like a rabid dog hungry and out for Kurt's blood. He'd now flattened himself against the wall with eyes closed, breathing hard. He whimpered upon the sounds of that strong knocking, fearing the cobwebbed slightly dust ridden glass would shatter, for it was merely a small basement window, many years old with a weakening frame, ever weakening from those growing knocks.

Kurt's body was now only a little form in the corner of the staircase, curled up like a child with knees to his chest, encased in his arms, a sight uncanny to children chained to a basement pipeline, starving and left to die in filth upon an insect infested mattress. He was rocking himself on legs that clenched together, not about to let forth warm yellow liquid, but wishing for the knocks to stop, the knocks of a thief perhaps, an arsonist, a murderer. He wished for help, but the light was poor and glass was everywhere. He so wished for whoever this person was to leave him be, yet upon the lightening of the knocks, as if the tips of a finger, the nail was tapping the glass with a light clink, Kurt's eyes opened to hear a voice emanating from beyond.

His body rose on legs riddled with pins and needles, feet burning with a tingling sensation with every step, but kept quiet as he listened out for that soft voice, so soft it hardly carried to where he was hiding, yet like the knocking it grew louder, and deeper with greater assurance. He no longer had to strain to hear those muffled panic toned words, as if they themselves were being pursued, he could hear them, how they furrowed his brows, "Kurt?" "Kurt, baby are you in there?" "Babe, it's me. Open up." The utterances were made clearer as he neared, his posture poised defensively and on guard with the intruder's silhouette now lightening, that voice now recognizable, his fear dissipating as with a last round of baby steps, Kurt gasped.

Looking anxiously down at him through the blurred glass was Puck, his boyfriend, now grinning nervously with frostbitten cheeks and nose, those hazel eyes rich as he waved a "hey," one Kurt just as nervously returned, though he was deeply relieved with such solace dousing the fear in his heart. He scurried up to the window and clambered onto his vanity, careful not to knock over any of his products that trembled from the minor shudders and jolts by his knees, until the window was opened, until he'd retreated a few steps back to allow Puck room to skillfully maneuver his way through the frame with little difficulty, jumping down safely as Kurt closed the window after him, the cold breeze from outside pinching his fair cheeks.

All that crawling in the shrubbery had left the jock's jeans soiled at the knee with his shins skimmed with grass stains. The soles of his converses were also dirtied, leaving behind footprints on the carpet whilst dust, pieces of flint and dead leaves were quick to rain down with a swipe of a hand that retreated behind Puck's back to the sound of a crackle, Kurt's ears now pricking, the crackle of gift-wrap. There was something secretive in the air, akin to redolence. Puck had both hands behind his back, only ever had at least one hidden as he'd brushed himself off yet Kurt hadn't been paying attention, realizing his own boyfriend had snuck into his bedroom at night like they did in the movies. He now had one of those boyfriends. He had Puck.

Now Puck had him, for in no time at all, the jock strode over in two short strides and kissed him ardently, had Kurt stumbling back from the force but kept still and upright as a strong arm wound its way tightly around his slender waist, had their bodies coming together so close in an embrace, as if Puck had just come back from war. The jock's facial skin was cool to the touch, wind kissed and pinkish at the cheeks with his lips dry, though they were quickly moistened as Kurt wetted them down with his own, his heated tongue warming them up, warming Puck up as that toasty little water bottle he was before pulling away to catch sight of those happy hazel eyes gracing his luminous lotioned skin, smiling so happily at him as Kurt smiled back.

"Sorry for scaring you like that, baby," murmured Puck as he dove his face into the fair boy's neck, a little noise akin to a hum vibrating up Kurt's throat as he too sank into the jock's embrace that had him on the tips of his toes, as if he was ready to be lifted and spun around in circles, and only with one arm, one so muscular, that relieved some space between them to now have their foreheads coming together. "I know we didn't have anything planned, I should have called, but I had to see you."

"Did you walk all the way here?"

"Had to. I couldn't sneak out in the truck, it makes too much noise."

"So your mom doesn't know you're-"

"No, I'm good till early morning... I have something for you."

"You do?" Asked Kurt, a smile bringing about a little something to his words as only a smile could, yet as he made to bring that smile to Puck's lips, the jock pulled away, those first few seconds Kurt believing him to be like an impatient little child preferring to be alone, no longer wishing to stand the touch of a restrictive parent. He was of course wrong. For with Puck's brief retreat brought about the retraction of a hidden arm, and a hand holding such beauty it had Kurt smiling once more.

It was a luxurious rose bouquet of fifty petalled blossoms, of American Beauties, a patriotic hybrid perpetual rose known for its cup shaped head, rich color and flagrant scent. Numerous sparkling diamante pins had been closely interspersed across the bouquet, with the bouquet itself well gift wrapped in glossy cherry red paper and tied neatly with a matching gauze bow, that now strained, threatening to loosen there were so many roses! A well assembled cluster, every head close nit as if they were all competing for the top spot, to have the pleasure of gifting Kurt with their own overwhelming fragrances. Raspberry, redcurrant, geranium, bergamot. Sumptuous subtle aromas, all fresh and all delicious as fair eyelids fluttered in their wake.

The story of the bouquet had begun at Lima's seasonal farmers market, where after school that day Puck had met up with his family to catch an extensive kosher friendly shopping list in his mother's hand; of organic brown bread and eggs as well as a wide assortment of roasted vinegar meats, fish and vegetables that would stock their pantry up for days. All the better to feed her babies with, though which had taken the best part of an hour to buy, much to Puck's boredom. He did not share his mother and sister's interest in markets. They were loud booth circuits that had his hands cramming his pockets every time, feet kicking the ground that yet now only lead him astray to a booth that had had them shuffling nervously, his face blushing.

It was a flower stand, secluded somewhat from the rest of the market and only small, though charming in nature, with cake like tiers of the most beautiful bouquets surrounding the booth itself, predominately of roses, displays cascading with petals strewn on the ground, engulfing it as if overgrown like a miniature flower garden of Babylon, with the insides of the stand like a sepulcher of flowers. Behind the desk had been an elderly man in the midst of arranging a red rose bouquet, bringing it to life with Puck overlooking attentively as if watching a birth of a child. The roses positioned and the stems cut, the diamante pins embedded, and the bouquet wrapped as wrapping a child in a blanket, this child, this bouquet to give to Kurt. His baby.

The fair boy was stunned, overwhelmed with what he now cradled in his arms. His eyes stung with tears and he felt a swirl of nausea as he dove his nose into such strong parfum, the power of fifty roses weighing down his arms, but kept supported, even as he discovered a heart-shaped card tucked amongst the flowers at the rim, printed in that gold ink a message, 'Kurt, I will love you for as long as life endures. Your boyfriend, Puck'. The message was whispered with no voice, the fair boy's lips mouthing each word as if praying at an alter. He wished not to cry on his roses with silly sentimental tears that would fall on their petals like rain, but it was hard as he squeezed his eyes shut, now opening them once again, so glassy and so blue.

Puck had not drawn a single breath from the moment he'd given Kurt the bouquet, his eyes never blinking at the fear of missing a flicker of emotion that danced across that fair face, those lips that shamed his roses, now mouthing a "thank you", with an intention to dunk the bouquet into a vase of fresh water. Yet before said deed could be done, the jock watched as his emotions overruled him. He brought Kurt back into him by his waist and nuzzled his nose against the boy's ear, cooing happily but with a whispered voice that broke upon the words, "I love you Kurt, so much," sharing a kiss with those red lips, passionate, made him whimper with need and desire, before letting Kurt go, off to vase his American Beauties. His babies.

With the room now empty, Puck removed his mud-stained shoes and tucked them beside the foot of the bed, wincing at the unsightly footprints he'd trekked in upon entrance, knowing better than to attempt to fade them with the rubbing of his foot. His Letterman Jacket was casually shrugged off onto the comforter to reveal a black tee underneath, form fitted to strain as he flexed his biceps, warming them up, the idea of Kurt lathering his lips over contracted muscle fuelling his need to shower the boy with some very much-needed Puck love upon his return. Yet as he made to climb the bed, to settle down comfortably, he caught sight of himself on the bright laptop screen, the picture he'd sent of himself to Kurt, the picture of him in the nude.

The bed retained traces of heat, the comforter was oddly shaped and by the laptop was a tissue box with a tissue pertruding jaggedly out of the slit, as if the one prior had been pulled out harshly, quickly to stem something. Lowering his nose, Puck sniffed the sheet; perfume and perspiration, the linen lightly briny with the faded traces of Kurt's sweat. The jock knew this scent. Many a teen boy did, with Kurt's easily traceable, even the odor of his juices skin to sugared batter, cookie dough even brought about from Kurt's sweet tooth. Puck was lying in a big bed of his boyfriend's post-sexual gratification, the aftermath of an orgasm brought alive from the soft-core picture of himself, one sent for this purpose, but made all the more real now.

The picture itself had been positioned, timed and taken right after masturbation, with the remnants of Puck's sperm still glistening all over his torso as if he'd been spritzed with droplets of melted down pearls. His penis had awkwardly fallen limp after ejaculation and it been hard to stoke himself hard again before his juices congealed on his skin, but he'd managed it, recounting the fantasy he'd used of Kurt as a Victoria Secrets angel, sashaying down a runway in only a silver Laurel wreath, white lace briefs, roman sandals and wings, winking and blowing his only spectator, Puck, a kiss before coming to stop before him, straddling him, sheathing himself on his boyfriend's erect manhood and riding, flying their bodies higher and higher and-

In this time of deep arousal, the recollection of that fantasy, of Kurt pleasuring himself to him, of Kurt himself, Puck knew he need only rub his trembling palm against the bucking demands of his bulging jeans before he too would shoot, drenching the denim to leave an embarrassing stain at his crotch, but he didn't. Upon hearing Kurt's return, he quickly minimized the picture and lay back against the headboard, there to shuffle into an unconvincing non chalant pose and willing his erection to deflate, but it stayed rock hard as Kurt, having deposited the vase on the bedside table, came to lie beside him, rising a fair hand up under his fitted tee, fingers tracing the jock's defined torso to his nipples, the nubs erect, his dick erect and bursting to come.

Kurt was saying something, thanking him for the bouquet, almost profusely with his deft hands practiced as a pianist running his fingers over the keyboard, laying scales, but Puck did not hear above his erratic breaths, his rising chest, his bucking hips, his entire body like a boat on wild waters with the waves crashing up against the hull now gasping, "B-aby, stop! I'm g-onna! I-I'm gonna!" His hands flew to his jeans and undid them, his cock springing free angry and swollen until as he wrenched his tee up to his chin, he came with a roar, " ** _FUCK_**!" His now white wetted torso convulsing, jarring sharply as he breathed in through his nose, nostrils flared as a bull's, letting out strangled masculine grunts before flopping back down, panting hard.

"L-let me clean you up," stuttered Kurt breathlessly, retracting his fingers from Puck's nipple, not realizing he'd been tugging it from the reddish hue now painting the nub. He emptied the tissue box of its remaining four to five tissues and wiped the jock down from all semen, dabbing and blotting away at the heavily rising and falling torso before throwing them all into the trash can, three of them missing from shaking hands as he now made to lower Puck's tee, only to be stopped by the wrist.

"I guess that makes two of us tonight, huh babe," chuckled Puck breathlessly, his voice guttural and hoarse amidst dying pants, now smirking as Kurt frowned confusedly back at him. It only took a few movements to have the jock clicking open the nude picture of him on the screen and upon sight, the fair boy gasped, as if he'd never seen such explicit content before. His eyes were quick to dart over to Puck who had since leaned back against the headboard, that smirk alive, that smirk growing.

"How did you... never mind," sighed Kurt amusedly as he closed the picture down with the screen following suit, now joining the lazy satisfied looking jock on his bed, torso still bare, cock still out. It had since fallen flaccid amidst the frieze of Puck's groin hair, though even in its limp state its girth retained an impressive width with its length long, moisture still seeping from the slit like a leaking faucet improperly turned off. "Oh in case you didn't hear it, thanks again for the bouquet. It's beautiful."

"You're beautiful."

"Yes, but it's  _really_  beautiful. How much was it?"

"Let me worry about the money. I just want my baby to have nice things."

"You didn't go to a luxury florist did you? I've heard American Beauties are pricy."

"Kurt, its fine. I got them at the farmers market flower stand today, twenty dollars down from forty. I was the guy's first costumer of the day," reassured Puck as he lowered his tee and fastened up his jeans, careful not to catch his sleeping manhood on the zipper as he tucked it soundly back inside. With a look of surprise, Kurt asked almost in disbelief, "Really? The farmers market?" An answering nod from his boyfriend leaving him to eye his rose bouquet with an impressed smile.

"So, how long as it been since you've gotten cosy with my picture?" Asked Puck as he shuffled onto his side, head propped up by his hand, brows wriggling, that smirk, and all having Kurt snorting in amusement. Such cheek from this boy. The picture itself had been taken weeks ago, when the jock had been going through an alleged time of extreme sexual charge over thoughts of him, masturbating six to nine times each day, with snapshot proof of such virility sent only yesterday after school.

"Noah, I've only had it for a little over twenty-four hours, and up until tonight, all I've been doing is admiring your body," admitted Kurt, smiling shyly. "I know why you sent me the picture and I know it's meant to arouse me, which it does. For the first time tonight it brought me a lot of satisfaction, but it's also of my boyfriend, of whom I have feelings for and sometimes I just don't want to objectify you because of those feelings. Sometimes I just want to look at that picture and think of you."

"I think of you too Kurt, all the time, but you know I also think of you naked, and your boyfriend likes it when you think of him the same way. Just the idea of you getting off to me turns me on so much I can't even... I mean when I caught on to what you'd been doing just now with my picture I just had to," replied Puck unapologetically, his hand coming to rest on Kurt's hip, tracing calloused fingers along white briefs, ruffling the hem of that soft pajama top. "Remember Kurt, sex can be romantic."

"Has it ever been for you?"

"... no."

"Then how do you-"

"Because it  _will_  be romantic with us, Kurt. It  _will_  be!"

"Noah, it's okay, shhh," reassured Kurt with an expression pulled to calm. Puck's large hand had pressured on his hip, had pulled him closer in his air of frustration, post tantrum like breathing hitting his fair face, but he'd remained there rubbing his boyfriend's tense bicep, snuggling into him, said boyfriend having almost lost it with the thought of sleeping with Kurt the way he'd slept with all the others, treating him as nothing but an empty hole to fill, to thrust blindly into, robotically. Like a robot.

"I just want our first time to be special," murmured Puck into Kurt's glass woven hair, almost a whimper, like that of a kicked dog. "With all the love letters I sent you, its like I've been building up for great romantic sex, promising you something I've never had, but I can guess what it would be like, cause when I'm with you Kurt, when we kiss, when we frot fuck, they're the most intimate experiences of my life, and I don't want to ever have sex the way I used to. I just can't go back do doing that."

"How did you endure it? How did you... how did you even get  _hard_?" Asked Kurt quietly, now looking down at Puck's crotch with eyes that saw right through the denim. It had been put through so much. Suffocated with condoms as tight as sausage skin, only to be rammed into crevices, sometimes the wrong one, the one that  _hurt_. Times it would lose blood in action, times it had been faked, just like  _they_  had been doing, a joint performance at the price of sore genitalia with regret their hangover.

"I closed my eyes, Kurt. That's all I ever did. I closed my eyes and thought of things I liked instead of them," replied Puck recounting how many necks he'd dived his face into with eyes closed, creating his fantasies, ones often interrupted by those whimpering mouths that he'd clamp his hand over, telling them to be quiet or he'd fuck them harder, to not 'ruin it'. "Soft fem twinks were my substitutions and I made it work for me. It wasn't always easy, but whenever I'd think of 'em, it did the job."

"Oh..." muttered Kurt. So now Puck had been getting off to the thought of men, though Kurt suspected the jock would assure himself it wouldn't count, seeing as he'd be in girls as he would think of these 'twinks', canceling it out. With this excuse, it would explain why Puck had rarely manually masturbated. Ironically, having sex with girls, using them as his hand, had been the only way he'd allowed himself to explore his homosexuality, through 'substitution', another reason for his promiscuity.

"And then I met you, baby," smiled Puck. "Like I said before, not only were you the first openly gay guy I'd ever met, but the first that was my type, and with that, I started thinking of you every time I'd have sex, and it was easy cause I knew you, you were  _real_ , not just a fantasy. Sex felt good when I'd think of you, I even made it good for the chicks I was with, but after a time it wasn't enough. I had to have you, with me, under me, where I wouldn't have to close my eyes, cause you'd be there."

"So how long was it after we first met before you started fantasizing about me?" Asked Kurt curiously. His hand had been lightly caressing Puck's tee since the jock's little outburst a few minutes ago, the fibers of which had been sending tingles to tickle his fingertips like a harmless electric current, almost numbing them, yet they were quick to slow upon the question, shaping concentric circles on Puck's pectoral, near his nipple, his sensitive nipple, with that sensitive nub, feeling it harden.

"It was a couple of days after the semester started, so since September," admitted Puck. "Even though I knew you hated my guts I still thought of you, and even when you ripped on my family, or my cut dick, or me, I always had you in mind, cause you worked like a charm every time, baby," Puck smirking as he leaned in. "And get this, I was still with Santana back then, but I thought of you whenever I'd fuck her brains out. That's right, I fucked the hottest chick in school, and I was thinking of  _you_."

It was in an instant Kurt's lips were on his with a wet smack of a moist mouth, jarring Puck's own lips into a puckered state as those once docile fingers now grabbed his tee, pulling him closer, pulling him on top, with fair hands that now almost kneaded at his muscular chest, like playing with dough, like a kitten baking. His tee was ripped off impatiently just to have those hands on his naked flesh, there to fondle his large tanned nipples so thick and full it was if Puck was pleading Kurt to rub, twist or even squeeze them free from milk set to burst, and all the while kissing in a frenzy, tongues deep in moaning throats with no care for the minor kicks to Kurt's laptop or the way the sheet loosened at the sides to reveal the white mattress underneath.

The scene was a scenario from Puck's fantasy collection, a vast collection that had itself scattered across his love letters to Kurt, though upon learning these fantasies were not solely literary imaginings of beauty, but flesh and blood fantasies as raw to Puck as they came, Kurt had been surprised. Tastes of exhibitionism, voyeurism and striptease to join the jock's fetish for domination and effeminacy. He'd expected sexual acts he wouldn't even be able to fathom, acts befitting of a bad boy, a sex shark, and though Puck had indeed come across such acts in the past, they had never been personal preferences of his, with taste buds far hungrier for vanilla sex, dark vanilla, caramelized and spicy hot with romance, now that he was super in love.

It had been story time, and it had continued under Kurt's voice as if he'd been holding a torch under his chin, harsh shadows on his face as he'd let Puck in on his own sex fantasies through stumbled words and hesitation, a thick air of embarrassment about him. The idea of making out on the bowling alley foul line, to engage in sensual sex with silk blindfolds, to have his well groomed hair messed about and tugged as Puck would fuck him from behind, and to have his boyfriend dip kiss him in the middle of a crowded street, his very own V-J Day in Times Square. All spoken from shy lips adjoining blushing cheeks but unashamed in stance with blue eyes sexy and confident as he'd end to admit to share a fantasy from Puck's own collection...

The jock would lift Kurt into his muscled arms like Popeye as Kurt would squeal in panicked anticipation, as if for a split second he'd forget who this two hundred pound lusty boy was. Puck would carry him into the bedroom, Kurt's arms tight around his neck like a drowning boy's so the jock's breath came quick and audible as a stallion's. Laughing, with a shout of triumph he'd pin Kurt by his shoulders to the bed, peeling up his top, nuzzling his soft bare, beautiful chest with pinkish-brown nipples and rounded little tummy covered in a fine pale fuzz always so warm. Like a true stallion, Puck would become hard within minutes, blood rushing into the Puckster as if a hot-water faucet had been turned on and there to make love to his fair boy, only love.

Now, with a thousand dollar laptop teetering over the edge of the bed, with greater expanses of the mattress showing, greater expanses of their own skin showing with nothing on but their underwear, Kurt's bare thighs had been pushed apart as if he was about to be entered, Puck's hips nestled in between. The tempo had since slowed to accommodate a teasing pace, with a large hand creeping up a thigh until briefs were met, stretched only to ping back to fair flesh with a  _smack!_ Kurt squealing like a piglet would after it's curly tail had been pulled straight, a squeal Puck had always imagined the boy to sound when he'd get fucked, his big dick making him  _squeal_. Oh how it had him pulling on those briefs enough to rip them right off.

"I came so hard when I touched myself to you," breathed Kurt as he took the opportunity to speak on the rare occasions where Puck's lips were not on his, but rather on his neck, kissing, tonguing, sucking, now pulling away with a smirking, "yeah?" The line opened up for something good, with attention caught with 'come,' a word so alien, yet so naughty sounding on the polite lips of a well spoken boy, it was punishable by spanking. "To your biceps, so big and so powerful, your  _guns_..."

"Kiss 'em, kiss my guns. I wanna feel those lips of yours on my muscle," said Puck huskily with a tone akin to an order, one of impatience as he balanced himself on one supported arm, bringing his other into the air and flexed, enlarging that bulge, one so big that Kurt now kissed with those sumptuous lips, lathering them over his guns, praising them, worshipping them as Puck looked on. Never had he felt more like a man. "Fuck that's hot... fuck... go on babe, keep talking, keep going... please..."

"You want to hear more?"

"Yeah."

"You want to know how I touched myself to you all alone in this bed?"

"Fuck yeah."

"Like this..." Since kissing Puck's bicep, Kurt had kept himself up, whispering against the jock's ear, his lips, pecking them, some with a harder pressure, but now, against Puck's shuddering breath akin to breath of a freshman boy's first time, trying to hold off his orgasm to impress the girl with stamina he didn't have, Kurt swiped his fingers against his protruding tongue and lowered them down south, under the elastic of his briefs, upon his erection wet with thin moisture, now gasping, now-

Puck's mouth was on his so hard their lips were crushed, almost punctured from the force with teeth banging away, vibrating over battling tongues, though Kurt's harsh fall to the bed was softened with the very bicep he'd kissed wound tightly under the arch of his back, lowering him like a sleeping baby into a crib with no harm knocking the wind right out of him. Underwear had been ripped clean off, there to be thrown beside the now crushed tissue box with their lengths in contact, pubic hair now bristling with the hot friction of siege like thrusts that were failing to hit Kurt's sweet spot, with Puck noticing his discomforted, near wincing face as hips were shifted and thrusted. Nothing. Shifted by another fraction of an inch and thrust! Still nothing.

Such frustration. Such madness. A reminder of the sex the jock used to have, how he'd used to quickly fumble with a wilted-looking condom before he'd go soft, the latex the same sticky consistency in his hand as the thick mucus of a slug's slime trail, which he'd drop to the ground and curse, "God  _damn_ ," his face swollen red like a child's balloon blown near to bursting. He would be embarrassed and the girl too would be embarrassed to help him, fearing he'd lash out at her if she tried. Yet now here with Kurt, struggling amidst frightening growls of frustration, Puck refused to re-experience such embarrassment, his hips continuing to shift petty millimeters, to thrust blindly, nudging Kurt with his manhood, until he hit it, until Kurt screamed.

The bed was rocking now. The bed was rocking wildly with the headboard knocking up against the wall, the near naked, teasingly stripped mattress starting to list and skid dangerously to one side, almost far enough to knock over the bedside lamp with a crash, and all stimulated by Puck's thrusts that now had Kurt writhing underneath him as if he was possessed in mid exorcism, his eyes rolling white in his sockets with his fingers clinging to Puck's biceps so hard it hurt, but the jock didn't care. He watched as the boy lost his worn breath over his cries of, "Jesus! Jesus! Je- _sus_!  _F-uck!_ " with Puck whimpering as he kissed his fair neck, lapping up every bead of sweat, his grunts thick with want, "yeah baby, take my cock, take- o-oh, Kurt!"

The control was slipping to join the jiggling bed, their bodies clumsy, skin-smacking and sweaty, but still the edacious thrusts drove in by the pound, so powerful, near to chafing both their thighs from such urgent lovemaking. Until with a crescendo of macho like groans, Puck's balls tightening, his once strong arms shaking, threatening to give way, he reared up like a horse shot in mid gallop and came uncontrollably, as if there was too much semen spewing out, too much pressure in his penis, with his cry a guttural choke like cry layered by a soft scream of pleasure underneath him. His hips were quick to enter a trance of spasmodic pumps, hardened thrusts that contracted repeatedly, quivering like a fever, before they softened, slowing to stop.

The fair boy had a look of passed out bliss as if those insatiable thrusts had knocked him unconscious, with the orgasm itself having been as potent as a class A drug set at too higher dosage for his small body, almost life threatening. His eyes were closed, his mouth was agape with heavy breaths and his glistening chest was a splattered mess of white juices, and so much juice! The quantity of a small water bottle, with traces of which reached as far as his hickey decorated neck, even his chin, with a little puddle in the caving of his cute stomach, now dripping down the sides of his torso from the heave like rising and falling of his chest, there to stain the sheet damp with sweat. It was the most arousing post coital sight Puck had ever seen.

The temptation to slump was high with the bed looking so inviting despite its trampled looking state. Kurt's laptop was now on the ground, the bedside lamp too, there to shine upside down with the bulb luckily neither broken nor bust. They're bodies were catching their breaths with air so humid they had to breathe in twice as hard with barely audible sweet profanities escaping the jock's lips, Kurt's name amongst them, that name leaving his mouth like a prayer that had the boy now turning to look at him. Kurt's forehead was glistening with sweat. Whether it was his own or that of Puck's that had dripped on him, he didn't care. It was that closed smile, as if fresh from giving birth to their child, there for the jock to lean down and kiss.

"Fuck... that was amazing," moaned Puck, swallowing down on his lingering orgasm that felt to stretch expansively, feeling it running through his very veins. His breathy words brushed up against Kurt's lips as they kissed sweetly, again and again, each kiss slow that had him coming to lie beside the fair boy, careful not to slump himself down with force, to make the mattress wobble. They were both in delicate condition with bodies weak, but happy as Puck whispered, "God damn... baby."

"Y-yeah... Santana can eat her heart out."

"That's right, Kurt. You're better in bed that she ever was."

"Really? Better than the 'hottest chick in school'?"

"By a fuck ton, babe. You can wear my come like a God."

"Oh, would you mind passing me the spare tissue box? It should be in the bedside draw," asked Kurt quietly, smiling amidst his exhaustion, but the jock wished to protest. Having the fair boy looking so ravished, so debauched drenched in sperm was enough to mentally snapshot him with yards of film, to click with a blink, a million blinks, but he did as he was told. He had to shift the mattress back into place to access the drawer but inside was the full tissue box, now brought hastily to Kurt's side.

"Here, let me," offered Puck gently, basking in Kurt's thankful appreciation as he set about cleaning them both up, emptying half the box by the end and leaving the wiped expanses of their skin sticky with the remnants, as if they'd been eating treacle off of each other. Yet Kurt still remained uncomfortable, now wanting a shower, wishing to do something practical about the tangled sheet that was so wet beneath them, but after the shower, both of them under that warm hissing spray.

It was said he'd only be a minute before Puck had pulled him into a passionate kiss, a declaration of love somewhere amidst it as Kurt had swayed into the bathroom, returning his laptop to the bed half open, now fully open by Puck's hand as the jock froze, cold shower water running, heating in the bathroom. There, set as the desktop background was a photo of both him and Kurt in Puck's bedroom the day he'd come out, with the jock sitting on the edge of his bed, Kurt sitting sidelong across his lap holding his phone up high above them, it's lens looking down upon a cuddling couple held tightly together with their arms around each other, as if never letting go, but both smiling, on the verge of laughing with cheeks pressed to each others.

It was one of many. Perhaps one of twenty or thirty. A playful little shoot after Kangeroo Dundee that had had them both in almost every shot, both on the verge of their prime, a prime of health and beauty and both hypnotized. Puck now himself was hypnotized, reflecting his own on screen smile as he leaned in closer to the screen. Kurt was so  _beautiful_. As graceful in play as the sleek kitten he'd been in the bed, a luscious piece of candy he wanted to suck and suck, and with him they'd encased young love together in such high definition, surprising for a phone camera, capturing in detail every twinkle in their eyes, as if they were about to let loose tears of joy, such was their happiness, now cut short as a document flashed upon the screen.

It was an accident. He hadn't meant to do it. He was not used to macbooks, or most Apple products. Yet with too forceful a swipe of his finger across the sensitive touchpad in search for the folder with the remaining pictures of that day, he'd had the desktop background disappear behind a blindingly white Word document that had his eyes squinting, only to enlarge and only to read the bold underlined title typed in black Calabri size ten font - 'Die Noah Puckerman Die', with its body stretching for two pages, it's contents rough in draft, just like Puck's had been when planning his love letters, how it had been a womb for their births, with their creator, their father's condition now critical as he read on, these words, with death now imminent.

Yet death was the point. Death was what his sweet beautiful boyfriend had wished to see him in. Death that would slice his head right open by an engine fan. Death that would bisect him with a flying flaming car hood. Death that would suck his organs and intestines clean out by a pool drain. Death that would have him flying back from an explosion only to have his chest diced on a barbed wire fence, and death that would shoot him repeatedly through the face with a nail gun, with large nails puncturing his eyes, into his mouth and leaving him to drown in his own blood. There were so many, and not one had shown him mercy even if he'd begged for his life on his knees like a mutt. Death had not spared him. Kurt had not spared him.

So much wrath, ' _mohawked piece of shit.'_ So much hatred, ' _I'll never date a muscular douche bag like him'._ It had been a well painted porcelain mask Kurt had been wearing all along, one that had never melted, a waltzing masquerade that had had him stabbing Puck with a bejeweled dagger to the heart. Or a roller coaster ride meant for two, him and Kurt, but nearing the end and the restraints had been unlocked, the wheels were flying from under, the track was breaking up, coming apart, Puck looking to his left with Kurt no longer beside him but on the boarding platform, laughing manically away at him as the carriage derailed, Puck flying through air, now falling through it to the ground below, his blood curdling screams silenced instantly.

It was the need, not so much the want that had Puck pulling his eyes away from the screen, as if the razor sharp text was burning into his retinas, like a laser blinding him until he couldn't see. For his sight had gone grey around the edges, now blurred at the bottom from an apparent on set of tears he had not realized had shot up through his ducts whilst reading. Yet even with his vision comprised, he was still able to make out his hands and how they quivered over the keyboard, too weak to clench as he felt the trickle down his cheek, the first tear to be released like a lone droplet warning of an overflowing bath, seeping in through the side of his mouth and crumpling his face with the taste of salt wincing his eyes, the dam now bursting.

Puck was stumbling about on staggering feet as he was quick to hit the floor as if he was drunk, collecting every one of his clothes and pulling them on with juddering hands that did not do him justice, unable to fasten his belt, unable to button his jeans. His nose was now clogged, he was sniffing through his movements with the only scent left to him as that of the roses, those so called American 'Beauties' that now produced a scent akin to nothing more than a miasma, every petal rotting, every one decaying with horrid putrescence as Puck made for the window like a refugee about to be gassed alive, hoisting himself out of the window with a foot on Kurt's vanity, products this time falling over as he clambered out onto the cold lawn outside.

His only welcome was the biting November air, hitting his tear streaked face and freezing each one to his skin, but he was too upset to care, too devastated with the realization that Kurt would never love him, would never forgive or forget. To know that he, Puck, deserved unrequited love, that the love of his life would never feel morally repugnant or guilty for rejecting, but would rather revel in it in a sociopathic like fit of sadistic pleasure. For oh how Kurt despised him. He was loathed, abhorred, wished dead, and like a kick to the back of his knees with the thought he fell into the road, there for the moon to shine down on his pathetic figure, his haggard clothes, his pained face, a wreck of a crying boy now howling into the pitiless night sky.

Whoever had been woken up by such deep distress could have only guessed what it was as they had rubbed at their tired eyes and shuffled to the window with the street lamps searing their irises. Profane shouts to be quiet would be thrown like a booing audience to a lousy actor, to let the late hour be known, that people were trying to sleep, but there wouldn't have been breath in their chests to shout, even croak, all breath caught in the throat at the sight of a lone figure on it's knees with arms outstretched, palms wide open and vulnerable, that sound unmistakable, almost chilling. For these howls were not of a fallen child or a baby, nor were they of a whimpering dog hit by a rogue car and dying, but of a young man's heart,  _breaking_.


	26. Art

The American Beauties were not dead. His babies were not dead. Every few seconds Kurt's eyes would flicker over to them whilst at his vanity like a mother flushed with stress as if they were about to topple off the bedside table with a smash, breaking the glass carved vase of his grandmother with its contents strewn, rose flavored water drenching into his carpet. It delayed his morning routine by minutes he could not afford from a late get up, ruining it even as his Vaseline slick finger missed his lips only to skim across his cheek, removing the tinted moisturizer he had yet to powder on to leave a greasy streak, its thick consistency too heavy for his pores, easily clogged and acne prone, despite his previous round of Accutane.

On the coffee table, his laptop, once host to a treacherous old document long deleted. It hadn't been updated in months, not since the start of October with the sole purpose of its creation having been for personal solace, relief, typed up by vengeful fingers that had gone about fading the letters on each key. With each death listed, he'd executed their leader, their tyrant king, all gruesome imaginings he'd so longed for in bouts of wishful thinking, enough to kneel by the side of his bed and pray for. Just the way he had been treated by him, treated by them all and meant to run away like a frightened animal with its tail tucked quiveringly in between its little hind legs from abuse bolstered by shoulders so broad, and their words, their  _words_...

Puck hadn't spoken to him in seven days. From morning homeroom until the bell that had him in his roaring truck home, he and Kurt had not neared. Though anger coursed not through Puck's athletic body so much as sorrow, how it had all the girls eying him with subtle looks of disgust, disgusted even at themselves for ever having found him attractive. Poor posture, even baggier clothes with his eyes always so bloodshot, a striking resemblance to his mother in the staircase photographs, red rimmed with so many of his capillaries burst he could no longer wear his contacts, but his glasses, cutting him from the football team and catching the attention of all, their rumors of drug abuse fucking up his eyesight a popular thread of gossip.

Kurt walked down McKinley's halls free from suspicion, unlinked to Puck's depressive state, but wishing to be so, wishing to grab him and kiss away his tears, to tell him that that list was of an old age view, but he hadn't. One look his way and Puck would flounder. Those exhausted hazel eyes were not yet strong enough to have him in their sights, like looking at the sun, to take in how white-skinned as a geisha Kurt was, as if he was a scared little kid, washed out under a hovering spotlight, or overexposed in a photo with too harsh a flash, it would have painfully jarred the jock's eyes to the point of stumbling, not that he wasn't doing it already. Puck was a wreck and there Kurt was to look on with his own eyes glassy as ever before.

They said he smelled incredible, but he hadn't perfumed himself for days. The top notes of his fragrances were overpowered by those of his roses, swamping his room with a hazy parfum Kurt thought would have turned to fungicide in light of what had had happened, cleaning it out of all oxygen to leave him suffocating. Yet he stood before them now, refilling the vase amidst rearrangement, talking to them as he did, even whispering his apologies to Puck through them in hopes that they would understand. He had looked after them well and they cooed happily as his fair fingers cupped their bulbed heads, with a kiss soon planted on their petals as a "goodbye my babies, I'll sort this out. I promise," was uttered. And Kurt was gone.

Nauseating flashes of scenery through a whirlwind of minutes had Kurt's engine dying in the McKinley parking lot, though the driver had no wish to move. His eyes were closed, barely open to see students walking past in chatting groups, in posse like cliques, with some alone, one even in the form of Puck himself. Yet it only had Kurt shutting his eyes completely, enough to hurt. The way he had had to shut his car door twice for not closing it properly, hurt. Even walking in itself was a chore to his legs as he entered the school, with just about enough energy to avoid being dragged into a current of bustling students, there to open a locker with a door mirror that had him thinking he'd never been prettier in all his life, and it disgusted him.

Again, the flash of a Mohawk in the glass, out of the corner of his eye. Kurt was quick to turn around, but Puck wasn't near, instead, further on down the hall at his own locker. He looked better, though still the human product of poor sleep, who now punched his locker as with a slip of the hand, a number of books fell out. He would glimpse over at Kurt occasionally, his eyes hardened at the edges but soft in the middle, and as he made his way past, Kurt could feel his breath on his neck, that heavy breath that escaped dry, almost cracked lips that so longed to kiss him, whip him around and kiss him, yet with his own locker now closed, all who stood before him was Brittany, smiling at him animatedly as Kurt looked down the hall. Puck was gone.

"Kurt?" Asked Brittany worriedly, veering her head into his line of sight, one of such potent staring that even with her there his blue eyes only seemed to focus on her after several seconds, as if they had resembled the glossy looking eyes of her stuffed animals at home, teddies, animals, dolls, eyes all lifeless looking but so pretty you wished to stare at them for as long as it took to bring them to life, to have them talking, the true dream she'd had since childhood. "Kurtie? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, sorry," replied Kurt with a slight upturn of the lip, the baby steps of a smile in place as he was quick to shut his locker and with it, his reflection, though with a little too much force from the sound of the mirror inside falling with a little clink, hardly heard. It wasn't enough to smash, for it was only a small oval mirror, but perhaps it would have had Kurt feeling better at the thought of physical strength still running abound in his body, at least an ounce, now turning to Brittany, "I was just thinking."

"Oh so you've heard the news too?" Asked Brittany as with a hand to his arm, she promptly lead him down the hall, her keen sense of direction making good work of weaving them both in and out of the McKinley throng, going so far as to direct him herself as he asked breathily, "What news?" To which she answered, a smile on her lips. "Mr. Onira has been fired, which means we have Ms. Sosa as our official gym teacher for the rest of the year! Isn't that cool! We can Yoga all the time now."

"Oh... yeah," muttered Kurt with brows frowning to the news that had in fact broken itself for the first time to his ears on Brittany's tongue. He supposed he would have voiced an opinion, a witty one, that Ms. Sosa's unoriginal lesson cover plans would still take precedence over the actual curriculum, an option many of the more wilful teachers at McKinley were known to employ, just as long as what they taught was at least vaguely relevant to the subject at hand. "That's too bad for Mr. Onira."

"Yeah, but we get Ms Sosa. Don't you like her? She doesn't make us run as many laps and she smells better," smiled Brittany with Kurt nodding his head to a rather minor victory. Granted it was known Mr. Onira could sweat through his clothes to leave behind that vile odor of perspiration, enough to permanently shrink the nostrils, Ms. Sosa's trashy celebrity perfume that had her smelling of a baby prostitute was enough to nauseate a whole gym worth of students into fits of continuous vomiting.

"Yes, I must admit I prefer Ms. Sosa," agreed Kurt with a grin, one pulled widely just for Brittany as if she were a small child showing him a picture she'd drawn proudly in class, one an adult had to praise despite no matter how badly drawn it was, and though seen as patronizing, Brittany basked in the attention, how it was extra warm, made her feel precious even with Kurt's slender arm now around her shoulders as they entered the gym together to shouts and bouts of shrieking laughter.

Girls were running wild, with boys right behind them, a sight of playground silliness, even light soft core foreplay with heavy anasyrma undertones playing through as no Cheerio skirt was deemed safe from the preying hands of the odd Titan, the way they threw themselves after each other in play, with no teacher supervision to stop this naughty charade. Kurt and Brittany watched with amused eyes as their gym class was reduced to nothing but a troop of monkeys in heat, tag for teenagers in reality but it was more fun to name it otherwise. Brittany herself looked enthusiastic to join with the girls playing, shouting out her name, "Brittany!", but she stayed with Kurt as they made their way over to the bleachers, an act he appreciated.

His Cheerio outfit strained upon sitting, the result of too harsh a run in the dryer last night, and Kurt took it slow as if he feared one sudden jolt could have the sensitive seams bursting to reveal his nakedness, to have everyone gasping at his baby ass, as if it wasn't already flattered by his tight pants, an ass so well formed Brittany had praised it, and to catch the attention of the boy on the bleachers across from them, changed into a wife beater and sweatpants, ignored by his peers but longed for by Kurt. Those sexy muscular arms, bare, those sexy feet, bare. His boyfriend was so sexy, though with that title in jeopardy had Kurt looking away, wishing everyone would just stop messing around, stop running, shouting, "Stop!"

The word of thought was the one word shouted by Ms. Sosa herself as with a clacking of stilettos with a tone high enough to give the impression she'd sharpened them into spikes, all of those running were brought to an immediate stop, their cheeks ballooning with suppressed giggles. The temptation to puncture them with said spikes was high, it was noted in Ms. Sosa's eyes, yet instructions were barked for mats to be placed on the floor instead, evenly spaced and done in silence less they wished for detention. Kurt scurried away with everyone else, yet even walking at such a pace had him feeling restricted in his own uniform, as if he should have been scuttling on little baby steps, enough to trip up on as he was handed his own mat.

Upon return, his movements stilled to catch sight of Ms. Sosa with Puck, talking to him with a face of authority pulled tightly, now pointing at Kurt himself as he lay his mat down on the ground. Unknown to him, she had not been as blind as believed. On both occasions she'd seen Puck kissing him with a strict order for it to cease, "You can kiss as much as you want outside the classroom, but when we're in session, you will do best keeping your tongue in your own throat Mr. Puckerman," and with that he was dismissed to look over at Kurt, the first look shared in seven days. Yet Ms. Sosa's words had been unnecessary. Never again would Puck kiss Kurt, especially in here, for it was only with a kiss that he'd fall in love with him all over again.

No partners. Just working alone. Kurt was by himself on the mat, following instructions by Ms. Sosa herself, clad from her usual Californian bimbo appearance, to one of pink form fitting spandex, a European fitness instructor that had all the boys lagging in their movements, tightness in their sweatpants, staring, one staring at him, he could feel it. Just a few mats away, was Puck, both of them separated from a firm demand to have at least one person between them. Yet the jock had chosen to ignore, to defy, had chosen to torture himself with moving sleekly from one mat to the next, those he passed unaware of his movements until he'd set foot on the one behind Kurt, warding off the occupant and taking up position, eyes always on him.

The Big Toe Pose, the Chair Pose, the Dolphin Pose, the Downward Facing Dog. It was a myriad of poses set to dance music too loud Ms. Sosa could hardly be heard up on the stage, her voice drowned but with eyes overseeing her flock of students, now frowning, sending warning glares to one who dared to disobey. "Puckerman!" Was her cry, one muffled by the music. "Puckerman, get back into your place now!" Again, her voice was stolen and she wished not to strain it, or disturb her class's progress, even as one of the jock's had lowered his hands to palm his tent shaped bulge through his sweatpants at the sight of her, even as she caught three girls talking amongst themselves, she could see Puckerman getting closer and closer and-

Kurt whipped around and caught him in mid approach, the jock now frozen in stance. It was as if they were playing their own playground game of  _What time is it, Mr. Fox_ , with Puck having had to complete numerous yoga positions before he'd be free to catch his little fox, but strategy had deceived him. He was so close, but he'd not been fast enough. Kurt was looking at him not as if he was about to eat him for 'dinner time', but with eyes that conveyed an apology, though the boy remained silent. Both of them remained silent, unmoving amidst their exercising classmates, until with sudden energy, Puck grabbed onto Kurt's arms and clenched down hard, pulling him in as he stared malevolently down at those frightened, wincing blue eyes.

"Why did you do it, Kurt," Asked Puck, his voice an angry heartbroken murmur, verging on a hiss, but with enough of a human voice to it that brought about an air of desperation. With emotion as strong as it was, he was not about shaking an answer from Kurt's mouth as the boy lay his hands on his chest, fisting his wife beater in an action that wished to push and pull at the same time. He knew his hands were whitening, cutting off circulation in those slim arms, but he asked again, "... W-why?"

"Puck please, you're h-hurting me," breathed Kurt, now squirming in vain and without victory as he felt his arms start to numb with enough force applied to snap his bones within. Looking up at Puck, he now saw up close the impact that night had had with a reddened nose, his jaw and chin left completely unshaven to have stubble maturing his rugged looks and his contacts were back in eyes darkened with black bags with tear ducts beyond inflamed as if one more tear would have Puck screaming.

"You wanted to hurt  _me_ , Kurt. You wanted me  _dead,_ " replied Puck emotionally, emphasizing his piercing words through gritted grinding teeth with Kurt's winces as pronounced and clear to his naked bloodshot eyes as the rest of him. "I mean, how much did you fucking hate me? Huh? How much did you have it in for me to..." The jock's words were quick to die as his head hung down, closing his eyes and bringing Kurt closer into him that much further as his voice broke. "I never stood a chance did I."

"Yes, you did," whispered Kurt with enough reassurance in his strengthening voice to shake the jock himself, to make him see, and now with proximity closing, he moved into Puck, those large hands like metal clasps on his arms finally letting him go to fall to his waist, holding them tightly. "I wrote that list but only when you made my life hell, and you can't start believing I still think of you the way I did back then, because I don't. Alright Noah. I don't hate you. You mean so much more to me now."

"As what? What am I to you, Kurt?"

"You're my boyfriend, Noah. I care about you."

"Just as long as I cared more about you that's all you needed."

"What? Noah, I-"

"All you wanted was to get back at me, didn't you," muttered Puck, his head rising to see Kurt's hands pawing up his chest, "No Noah, no," on his lips, that beautiful face now upset as the jock spoke again, "This was how you wanted to hurt me, wasn't it." Again Kurt shook his head, pressing up against him like a child would pleading for something, crying even. "I love you, Kurt," Puck choked, tears now blurring his vision as Kurt's lips neared his own, "I thought one day you'd love me back."

"Noah, please stop talking as if it's not going to happen, it  _can_  happen, it  _will_ ," assured Kurt with his little fair hands grabbing onto the Puck's wife beater again, insisting and insisting as if begging him for his life at the feet of one entity who could save him. He was losing Puck. Those hazel eyes appeared almost scratched within the iris, the little patterns like gaping trenches, swipes, yet Kurt continued to speak, his words now hurried, his body pressing, "I don't hate you, I never strung you along, I-

" ** _LIAR_**!" Shouted Puck under a growl so thunderous, releasing his hold on Kurt and pushing him away with enough force to knock the wind right out of his chest. Stumbling back, the boy tripped on his mat and fell to the ground, white pain shooting up his backside and into his spine as he stayed there in shock. For seconds he couldn't breathe. His eyes were wide as if this white pain were genuinely lethal, until it spread to his heart upon Puck's words, "Don't  _ever_  come near me again, Hummel."

"Noah, stop!" But his words merely came out as croaks, as if he hadn't used it for days, left to watch instead as Puck stormed his way through their yoga dancing class and out through the double doors, the sound of the metal banging hitting Kurt's sensitive eyes. How they now blinked, how they welled, and how tears now trickled on down his porcelain cheeks as he found his body in too shocked a state to get up, wishing Puck to return, but he never did. Those doors never again opened.

The lesson was soon to end with mats put away and water bottles drowned down parched throats with remaining droplets spritzed across sweating faces. The loud music had since left a ringing in everyone's ears with most too tired to talk anymore amongst themselves as they returned to the locker rooms. Kurt himself had sat the remaining minutes out on the bleachers. Whether he'd been told to or not he could not recall. Perhaps the way he'd stumbled with a back that wouldn't straighten properly, the perfect hunched angle to allow his tears to roam free down his cheeks and onto the wooden floor was all that was summoned to him as both Quinn and Brittany escorted him out of the gym with arms weaved around his delicate frame.

In truth, the two blondes including Ms. Sosa had seen what had happened between him and Puck, though words were not heard with body language the only language. They thought it best not to mention it, deciding instead to escort him to the nurse's office to lie down, and there the nurse, overweight with a pinkness to her chubby cheeks that gave the impression of friendly hospitality, was quick to take Kurt off their hands worriedly. Yet they stayed as long as they could by his bedside, looking at a boy as white as a fallen mannequin with red tear marks staining both cheeks as if they'd been carved jaggedly with a blade and his flopping fair hand placed on his belly, as if he were with child, but a child dying. Both of them dying.

.

**Glee**

.

It was in the mall that fashion emergencies were doused from their flames and successfully put out, with the bottom of many a wardrobe overflowing with ash that would have that smell as if the victim had died in their own grave soot of wool, acrylic polyester and rayon. Yet the victims were burnt free from their hideous clothes and made to run naked and scared, bare flesh burning black marks littering their skin, into the nearest clothing store and there to be hidden from view until they resembled the models in the posters, clones of their mannequins, even if the victims themselves were humans with imperfections and blemishes abound, who looked upon them with envy, their self-esteem destroyed in a single look, with most of them female.

From dull eyed women in their forties and fifties, not one beautiful, not one pretty who wore no makeup with hair unstyled and uncombed, pot-bellied, slack breasted with sinewy unshaven legs, faces with as many sharp angles and creases as a Halloween pumpkin, a sickly carroty sheen to their skin with course hairs sprouting beneath arms and at their crotches. Some even with scars, even lurid sickle scars on a thigh, reaching even eight inches long. To women in their twenties and little baby girl teens, squeezed into cheap looking dresses as tight as sausage skin like moderately high-priced hookers, their lipsticked duck faces so dark they looked like cock sucking tramps, their jelly tits and asses spilling out like whores, dignity long buried.

It was a vision Rachel Berry had feared for years and had abhorred in her fellow classmates. She'd kept herself safe under her knitted animal printed jumpers, plaid skirts and kindergarden-esque Mary Janes, an image of a badly assembled prep school student or a devout Christian with little flesh showing. An image made fun of by many, saying she smelled as bad as the farm beasts she wore upon her well developed bust, large jumpers for such a well formed big breasted girl, with some even having threatened to set it a light with matches pointed at her, saved once returning to the locker rooms after sports to find a group of girls trying to pry open her locker, the very same matches spilling from their hands and striking on the floor.

It was a commentary upon her lips she told Kurt Hummel upon their arrival at the Lima mall, there as her friend and personal shopper, his sexuality enough of a qualification in her books, and of her age, when compared to her two fathers. She was close to Kurt, comfortable enough sharing stories of when she'd been younger, how her junior high bathrooms had been packed full with girls, her pouting peers, applying lip gloss and blotting their scrubbed-shiny faces with loose fragrant peach-colored powder, and there she'd stood looking into her own cloudy compact mirror with her bright coral pink lipgloss, teased for rubbing the gunk off, how she hated how phony it all was, hating the  _taste,_ the hour lingering taste of fake gooey fruit.

With much discretion, as if this was the first time she'd revealed such personal information, with Kurt withholding a mature face, the talk of her first periods at around the same time. The  _curse_ , she'd called it. The  _blood_  curse. How she hadn't wished to be like her fellow tart like peers, because bleeding, for it was bleeding, would be it, and how in gym playing volleyball, her hesitance and clumsiness out of shyness would cease upon the feeling of something trickling, hot red liquid seeping into the crotch of her panties leaving her dazed and with a sudden headache. All white clothing, all white panties, and all new. Todays layers explained, the density of thickness also explained, judgeless animals her only friends after such traumatizing accounts.

Her Kurt was easy to talk to, a great listener, an introvert of some sorts, an observer by far and always with a head to nod at the right times, acknowledging her, making her feel as if her words were worth being said, that she herself was very much worth listening to. It was a friendship that had matured from bickering to this outing today, with evidence of the past proving odd behavior in Kurt's part. He was quiet, very quiet, with witty comments kept to minimal answers, even one word. He was still there with her in the eyes, never did they stray or have him stumbling on his feet or losing them in the mall itself as they journeyed to the store of choice, but there was turmoil in those eyes, anxiety, even anguish to set them with a sad sparkle.

She was clad in numerous items of apparel upon entering their first destination, Topshop, with her brown eyes wondering over to blouses worn by refined young girls from good families and hurrying away from those that screamed nothing but pinup sex pot. The challenge had been to find a balance, one not as extreme as to say call girl meets Park Avenue, but used as an example as Kurt had aided her in her search, her knowledge truly lacking as if she was just as knowing when it came to fashion as a masculine beer guzzling, dry hammering macho man with her arms ladled with classy yet sexy clothes that Kurt slung onto her, clothes she would be trying on herself in the changing rooms, and what he gave her, she would like... or not.

There was no bite to Kurt's words, no sassy spark with his tone that much softer. Kurt had always been softly spoken. Unless he lost his temper, it had always been a voice the likes used right before bed, snuggling under the comforter with a friend and telling each bedtime stories, or with a lover, cuddling those stories together into a sweet dreamed kiss. She wished to address it, but trips to makeup counters that had those powders of her childhood drying up her oils and emphasizing her fine lines, even the perfumery bringing back memories of those girls so cheap, it was the slight angle of Kurt's face, how it was pulled ever so discreetly with the light shining on it differently that made one double take on even a minor a look as a glance.

With an arm wrenching handful of bags dumped on a nearby bench outside their last store visit of the day, American Apparel, a visit short lived and near unsuccessful after the fashion chain's heavily sexist photo archive had been splayed over their walls to bear down on them both, pulling at the seams of disgust, Rachel sat Kurt down and faced him. Lingerings of his own disgust soon died to have those big blue eyes looking back at her expectedly, frowning as to why she wasn't checking her receipt as she always did, something she insisted and enforced upon herself after every purchase, why she was holding his hands in her own, why she was looking at him the way she was, as if she herself were breaking bad news. What was up?

"Kurt, tell me what is it, what's wrong," began Rachel as she ever so slightly forward, her neck exposed to reveal her pulse points lathered in a fragrance they'd bought her at the perfumery, one she'd been happy to wear. Notes of flower florals with very little of that sickening candy that curdled her belly, yet it still could not overcome Kurt's own, the scent of his roses at home, the boy now asking, "What?" To which she sighed, but did not relent. "You seem... off today. Is everything alright?"

"Sure," replied Kurt innocently. Another one word answer that didn't give Rachel much, but accompanied by a mild shrug of the shoulders as if he himself wasn't sure if he was, both of them now questioning the validity of a word that was merely a dismissive lie, one she pursued, leaning in ever closer to him, "Are you? Are you sure?" Yet Kurt retained his posture, which he'd since corrected from a slight slouch to one almost rigid as he spoke, "Yes, I'm fine. It's just been a rough week is all."

"A rough week," Rachel repeated, as if the poor excuse tasted as bland on her tongue as McKinley's Mac and Cheese, the blandest food known to man. With her having shared personal stories of her own, she'd been hoping for Kurt to return the favor, but clearly she was addressing something too fresh in the mind. It would do Kurt more harm than good if he were to speak about it and so with that, she let it go, feigning belief with a nod as she smiled. "I have a little something for you."

"You do?" Asked Kurt, the warmth from his palms lost as Rachel turned around to rummage quickly through the many bags surrounding them as if like a child searching for chocolate. Her hands worked so fast, so greedily even, he feared she'd rip the delicate tissue papers in the bags, and the sound it all made, the rustling, the crackling! It drew attention of passersby, eying Rachel until with a breathy, "Here we are," she presented before him gifts that had his eye's lifting, bigger, even bluer.

"I wanted to get you something for your help today. What do you think? Cute, huh?" They were cute. A pair of white faux fur earmuffs with matching gloves that had Kurt whipping them on and toasting his skin upon impact, there to protect his ears and fingers from Lima's biting November breezes. Without having to check the label, he could detect the material as that of polyester, but he relented to comment as Rachel spoke on, "I knew they'd suit you. Just like that fluffy Panda hat you have."

"Thanks Rach," smiled Kurt, somehow the first genuine smile of the whole day as he trotted up to the nearest window of a defunct store, the lights inside extinguished to offer Kurt his reflection, there to tuck stray hairs back into place, making sure the earmuffs were correctly in position before funny faces broke out, his tongue out, the peace sign he'd seen many a time in Japanese Harajuku culture brought to his cheeks, everything kawaii or 'cute', his face cute as Rachel giggled from the bench.

Though the cute boy model was soon to sour, the reflection of the world behind him changing, almost twisting in the glass, with his friend's laughter descending in tone until it sounded so deep it resembled Satan's himself, the whole thing almost nightmare-esque as with this appeared a figure. It was on the other side of the mall, the opposite row of stores and walking along the level. The Dark Prince, so tall, dark and handsome, dressed in an outfit of pure shade except for the dark blue of his faded denim jeans and accompanied by two bubbly smaller figures in front, mere kids chatting away, with the Dark Prince smiling only slightly with lips closed, but enough to avoid questions, queries of why he looked so sad, why was he so sad.

The pane of glass in front seemed to quiver in its frame. With every loud thump of Kurt's heart it shook with blue eyes in fear that it would shatter, even explode with shards flying everywhere to crash to the floor, joining a fair dying boy impaled right through that same beating heart, Rachel's screams, a cacophony. In truth, the figure nearing the end of the reflection, the Dark Prince himself, walked hands deep in pockets with numerous puncture wounds in own heart, slices, cuts, chops, half the organ shredded away from viscous words that had gutted it from blood and tissue and left to beat twice as hard to survive, but to exhaust itself, to bust with the Dark Prince falling to the ground motionless, the screams of two little children, the end.

Murderer. Murderer! MURDERER! Kurt was a murderer. He'd murdered his prince, his own mohawked stallion and in his own bed, one he'd since stripped with new sheets clothing his naked mattress, but with a blood stain always there, blackened and sticky, though seeping as if still fresh with the prince's broken heart in the center, ripped at the middle and mutilated making him sick, making him tear up as with the disappearance of his broken handsome figure, out of frame and out of sight, the bustling sounds of the mall were quick to return with his dripping tears quick to be wiped away as he made his way back over to Rachel, the earmuffs off, the gloves off but his sniffling nose and pinkening eye line drawing her concerned attention.

"Kurt, what's wrong?" She asked, as she pulled out of her bag a set of Kleenex tissues, her fumbling fingers fretting amidst the surprise. Though there were no longer any tears on his face, but on his hand, some having retained their droplet forms as they were quickly wiped away, his nose wiped, slightly red now from the harsh friction. Another tissue was offered but it was rejected. The one he already had since been scrunched up in his clenching palm, listening to Rachel's plea like questions.

"It's silly, it's nothing, it's just... God, I shouldn't be letting this get to me," sniffed Kurt, shaking his head, Rachel now asking, "What is getting to you, Kurt? Tell me," though his shaking head remained insistent, not wishing to bore, not wishing to dampen their afternoon with any more tears of an emotionally strong person with allegedly, according to Brittany, a good a heart as a silver bloodied unicorn, soft coated with a braided mane. "I'm sorry for... I'm sorry Rach, this isn't fair on you."

"Don't be silly Kurt, you've been more than fair with me. Just look at all these bags," smiled Rachel, with a hand gesturing out to her many well-packaged purchases around them, the other rubbing concentric circles on his back as Kurt sighed in amusement. How naive she was to think the amount they had on them was even close to the real deal in the fashion capitals, a mere baby compared to those of stiletto shopaholics. "Come on; let's treat ourselves to Starbucks before we go."

"Alright, but if they ask us if we have Instagram accounts we are out of here," murmured Kurt, recalling his last visit in which teen girls all around had had their phones out snapping away at their drinks and letting them go cold as they had spent their time all idly choosing a pretty digital filter to layer it in before uploading it to their mindless followers, a trend Kurt had always found irritating, Quinn even more, "Everyones a 'photographer' these days," she'd said shaking her head disapprovingly.

Each and every one of the bags were hoisted perilously into arms of no real muscle power, organized strategically with the smallest on top, largest at the bottom, and no sharp jarring as they walked, Rachel's orders. Dents were easily made to distort the logos and the colored tissue paper at times threatened to fly off into the air, even more susceptible to ripping at any moment, but kept safe from careful footing, even on the escalator, to squeeze into the narrow space with people eying them and their bags, all them belonging to the new Rachel, well-dressed Rachel, looking and feeling good, and all the work of her friend, pretty Kurt, who's magical hands she'd kissed, kissed his cheek as well before they'd left, leaving a smile to bloom.

The orders for a Caramel Brulée Latte and Hot Chocolate were soon set at the Starbucks counter, with many seats free in the food court, empty seats with only the few dotted around. It was now late afternoon, a minute until five thirty, half an hour until closure with brightly uniformed janitors even bringing out their equipment right in front of them, but they didn't mind in the midst of few words and comfortable silence. Rachel was sipping at her steaming hot latte, petrified of scolding her tongue whilst Kurt sat opposite, cradling his own, warming his hands with eyes that flickered over to the nearby wall hung clock, how the handle clicked ever closer to the next number with the need rising within him to find his Dark Prince before it was too late.

It was with an excuse of having to need to wash his hands with a promise of a quick return that had Kurt skidding onto the escalator, "Be quick! I can't carry all these bags by myself!" Rachel shouted, magnifying his guilt as he shot her an assuring smile from above and looking down at her little brunette figure amongst a candy colored cluster of bags before the level was reached. His legs were soon to lead him past home bound stragglers and closing stores to the costume shop tucked at the end of the mall, the only shop he could think of that would have him in luck, yet one set for closure within the next month or so due to poor business and to be replaced by a newer, better, and more revamped fancy dress store under a chain label.

It was dark times for his Dark Prince. Reality these days was painful enough for escapism to overcome him, possibly even devour his built body, a costume outlet to sink himself into, and Kurt knew this. With every costume he himself passed upon arrival, his heart beat all the wilder. That heavy smell of rubber from scary face masks, the burning heat of the lights above enough to melt any matte face paint down one's neck, even the faint residual fumes of Chinese or Taiwanese manufacturing factories that hit him just as strongly as it did when first setting foot in the McKinley boys' locker rooms after practice, was all to render him dizzy enough to topple into an elaborate display, until laughter rang out, children's, the sight his confirmation.

It was a scene of playful devastation, a mess of clothes, heaps of them rising resembling dirty unwashed laundry and in the center, two girls, both haphazardly dressed in Disney princess costumes as if they'd been thrown on with no care, but in a rush to try on as many as they could, every one over the creased and crumpled home clothes. Yet Kurt only recognized one. The first, Sarah, the Dark Prince's sister, recognized from their brief encounter in Sheets-N-Things and from photos from the Puckerman residence. The other, Kurt did not know. Likely a friend as they both sat before the changing rooms, shouting for the occupant to come out, "Come on, No-No! I want to see what it's like on you!" "Yeah, come on show us, Sarah's big bro!"

A fashion show it was. One of applause and screams, female, with the curtain finally thrown aside to reveal the dashing Dark Prince, clad as an actual prince in Early Tudor robes of royalty, trimmed in gold intricate stitching, the embroidery weaving its way through every stretch of the purple fabric. His doublet, his hose, his golden crown bedecked in countless faux rubies and sapphires, and a sheathed gleaming sword hanging from his waist as was the time for aristocratic men. It was to be noted in fact, that the outfit was very historically accurate by fancy dress standards, except for one major alteration, possibly a last minute call, definitely one decided by the smirking prince himself, for there he was in all his decadence and finery, shirtless.

The muscle, oh how the tan complimented the purple, the beginning of a fantasy, objectifying. Kurt was in a tunnel after dark with a flaming torch in hand, led to the secret entrance to the prince's royal bedchamber, and there by the windows would be his majesty himself in only an unfastened Tudor shirt and fur coat, wine in his hand and a crackling fireplace heating the fair boy's entrance, a mere beggar servant, bowing before royal blood. Yet his chin would be lifted by a single calloused finger, he would be carried to the bed and laid upon the rose covered quilt, stripped, kissed and held before the plunge of a big flesh scepter deep inside him, the king size canopy bed rocking, its drapes flying all round them, 'O-oh fuck me, f-fuck me!  _Puck_!'

He wanted a slap to the cheek, one that would leave a mark, and enforced by his own hand as his blue eyes burst open and away from the fashion show scene before him. It was not the time for such explicit thoughts. Not in the wake of such a touching sight. The Dark Prince was spending time with his sister and her friend, entertaining them as the prince from their storybook fantasies, any young girl's fantasies with a charming act. Bowing, "My lady," on his lips, having those lips on the top of their hands, throwing them up into bridal holds, twirling and dipping them in mid dance, ballroom-esque, and having them knight him with his sword. The way he smiled for them, laughed with them. He was the Dark Prince of their dreams.

It would be like to run a paintbrush over a million-dollar masterpiece, to ruin it if Kurt were to step out from behind the aisle with time passing as he stood pathetically in hiding. His once hot chocolate would be cold, Rachel's latte would have been drunk and the mall's overhead sound system would inform of the fifteen minutes until closure, "Thank you for shopping at Lima Mall. We hope you have a safe trip home and look forward to seeing you again soon!" And there the woman's pre recorded voice sounded in the distance, Kurt now thinking fast, panicking, as he looked down at the shoulder bag he'd been wearing throughout and what lay hidden inside, the footsteps of the cashier, the Dark Prince now changing. There he stood...

Puck's voice was loud, "Alright, I want you both out of those dresses and before we leave I want every one of these outfits put back in their cases otherwise the sales lady is gonna bust my ass," Slightly vulgar wording, but authoritative so as to not be questioned, though the girls wouldn't put up much resistance. Sarah's stomach had grumbled for dinner a few seconds prior to the mall announcement with her friend having yawned three consecutive times in a row before he'd spoken. A minor rustle had been heard from a nearby aisle and he'd taken the movement as that of the sales lady herself, even though she'd yet to usher them out, prompting them him into action with the changing curtain now swiped across the railing, now closed.

It was lack of time that had him rushing. His fingers were near to ripping off the Tudor costume from his body, with memories of it being far easier to put on than it was to take off. Then came the folding, not doing it correctly, folding them too loosely so that the clothes came out too fat to fit into the plastic casing, doing it again, again too fat and then having to do it again and again and again. A tedious process he had yet to do to around twenty to thirty other costumes outside laying strewn across the floor, or not. The idea to leave them that way was tempting, a dressing room with hangers all over, body paint tubs, jars and tubes left uncapped and squirted to dry on the floor, even smudges on the mirror, smeared into a smiley face, 'Fuck U!'

His jeans were zipped and his hoodie was tugged on, turning to look into the mirror as he made minor adjustments, but they were flimsy pulls here and there, flattening out creases he didn't even care about. The overhead lighting in the ceiling had never meant to be flattering, with the shadows falling on his chiseled features so much harsher, as if they were cutting it. He looked older, mohawked washed but bristle dry and uncombed, eye bags deepened by tear troughs, he was breaking out on his cheeks, one of two on his forehead and his jaw still remained unshaven, that look of a young man maturing too fast in clothes so drab and dreary compared to those of the prince's, the Dark Prince, that alter ego he'd once gone by. No longer.

He shook his head violently, as if he'd just been jolted with electricity. He was not going to allow thoughts of Kurt to cloud his mind as he'd allowed it to happen for the past week. Memories of the list, memories of deceit, even those that had them both in this store playing dress up with the glass cool against his skin as he now lay his forehead against it, his breath soon to show up on the mirror as he kept it in check, but heavy breath at that, breath that had been picked up by hairs on the nape of Kurt's neck, all erect with goosebumps, his naked hazel eyes even having caught sight of a shiver and that bunny head band, and that smile and the glass shaking as he now banged his head against it, harder and harder. Forget, forget,  _forget_!

It was saved from shattering at the cost of it splintering with odd pieces loosening and falling to his feet, it's very beautiful cobweb like design left in his wake as through the cracks he caught sight of crimson, hot crimson on his face, down the center of his throbbing forehead but hurriedly wiped away, along with the pus from a zit he'd popped in his fit. He was bleeding, though not badly. Merely a trickle that could easily be stemmed with a plaster, yet he wished not to alarm his sister as he called out her name, his voice guttural and dry, "Sarah!" No reply. "Sarah's friend!" Again no reply. He whipped the curtain aside on the railing, the sound akin to a sword swishing through the air to behead as there stood both girls, quietly staring.

'Die Lowlife Scum Die!' Were the first words to mind upon a familiar sight of a baby boy romper outfit pinned to the opposite wall, a piece of paper in the face hole. 'Die!' He shook his head with blurred vision, his sanity in question after so many hits to the head. 'Die!' He was standing right where he'd been standing all those months ago, but his body was now unsupported on weakened legs as he flew an arm out onto the wall. 'Die!' Kurt would never be satisfied until he was dead, to wrench out the remains of his heart until he fell. 'Die'. Yet the faces of his sister and of her friend, children, innocence, were smiling, broad teeth bearing smiles, 'aww' like smiles that had him joining them, looking at the paper, his broken heart welling so. 'Noah...'

It was a drawing on thick white paper, proportioned well and shaded perfectly, exquisite, the result of many an hour's work with no blemish left from a pencil that had faltered in the hand before ceasing in feathery motions, but a strong pencil, one that wouldn't easily snap in between the fingers when the pressure was high, for it was the height of detail. A drawing of both him and Kurt together from the shoulder's up, facing each other, slender arms around a thick neck with eyes that dove into one another's, melting the heart, had Puck's lurching in his chest as he took in how its intimacy bewildered its beauty, marveling at such a skillful hand, how not even jealously itself could find a line in the entire work that was not perfect.

Kurt had been here. Had perhaps followed them. Perhaps planned for the curtains to be drawn, to assemble a sight he knew would gauge Puck's reaction, the real punching impact, yet like before, there was no use looking over his shoulder for him as if like a child searching for his parents on a crowded city sidewalk. Kurt was long gone, his lingering presence kept only alive by the scent of American Beauties and the drawing that Puck longed to trace with his fingers without touching, for it was too beautiful to touch, even Kurt's neatly sprawled signature in the bottom right hand corner beside text that had him stilling and as if new life had been breathed into him, his heart gave a sudden thump, legs giving way as his tears sprouted from under.

_'Don't start hating me Noah, when I have only started loving you…'  
_


	27. Skin

It was night, yet it was not dark, with a moon so bright it cast harsh silhouettes upon the homes of many, of trees, foliage, a cat with a squealing rabbit in its jaws, playing with it, how it played dead in return before the bite to its neck, its body now flopping lifelessly, dead. The light's outline was easy to seep under closed curtains, some transparent enough to shine right through, unsettling those asleep, with some windows protected with nothing but paned glass, a basement window, the only window in a bedroom of a house the likes of the American Dream, the nation's flag at the front door near dead in movement but wavering ever so slightly on its suspended pole as if in agitation, fear, warning those inside of an approaching intruder.

There was a figure, tall and built, standing in the middle of the road and facing this house with the same worn clothes he'd had on all day, that same unwashed emotionally stricken face. Having escaped from his own bedroom window, now open with drapes that had gently rustled after him as he'd climbed down the neighboring tree to the ground. There to run with a drawing in his hand, sheathed carefully in a sheet protector with not a single crease denting its surface. There to turn onto the street with lungs burning, his breath seen in the air before he'd come to stand before the house, pausing, now moving around it to the little basement window by the side, down low by the ground with his body crouching, his eyes peering in.

The room was pitch black, but with its window left unlocked, soon opened as large fingers hooked themselves underneath and pulled it open to leave enough room to have him wriggling himself through feet first, yet it was harder than he'd recalled. His jacket was snagging on the window, forcing him to pause as he'd release himself before he'd snag himself yet again elsewhere. His elbows were sinking themselves into the mud, sending a chill into his body, yet he kept going, all the while staying as quiet as possible with the trees behind him rustling and his own grunts of irritation sounding before he was in, narrowly missing a vanity desk by a few centimeters, but landing on stealthy feet with legs crouched as he scoped the room.

It was the state, such a mess, with clothes off their hangers by a wardrobe door left ajar, clothes he had never seen the boy wear before. There were countless unfinished homework sheets and essay drafts left unorganized and strewn about on the coffee table beside a long drunk mug of hot chocolate that had since made a ring in an open textbook, and plastic caps were missing from various skin care and cosmetic products, with the remains of tinted moisturizer thick enough to be foundation left caked on undisposed scrunched up balls of moist toilettes, since dried, with splotched make up stains even on the very vanity itself, perhaps from a spill or perhaps from a hand that had been too weak and shaky to even reach such a fair canvas.

The smell was overwhelming, had him lightheaded enough to have him losing his balance, but it was also the most beautiful scent he'd ever come across, that of the roses, the American Beauties, the fragrance his boy had been wearing to school all these days. How the scent had matured into sophistication, leaving behind a careening haze along with the residual odor of the hot chocolate as if it had just been made with his mouth watering, the crumpled clothes freshly washed and smelling of soft cotton, the make up with an odor not of paint but of the boy's skin, the boy himself fast asleep in his bed, a dark human shaped lump from where Puck was crouching until with the ascent, he made to close the window behind him with a soft click.

The drawing was slipped out from under his jacket where it had been tucked safely since entering, into hands that clutched it as tightly to his chest as much as they dared to without crumpling it, as if he would collapse without its presence close to a heart beating so palpitatingly the sheet protector wavered repeatedly with little thumps. There he glanced down at it, his eyes straining for inspection in the low light as he caught sight of no imperfection scarring the paper, before straightening up and nearing the four poster bed on feet of stealth, rounding the wooden bed post before slowing at the foot of the mattress, though never ceasing movement until he was standing in front of his dormant boyfriend, until he was looking down at him.

The smell was more concentrated now, with the roses themselves on the bedside table, now stealing Puck's sight as he took in how differently they looked. To accompany the maturity of their scent, the bulbs of each rose had grown somewhat, their petals longer and deeper in red since he'd last seen them. They were still in the same glass cut vase his boy had put them in with a waterline reaching half way with a Voss water cylinder by the leg of the table, because these American Beauties could not drink mere tap water with its coppery taste from the pipes, but still artesian water from Norway with spring nutrients of the mountains. What a fussy parent his boy had been to his 'babies', wishing only the best for them, to have them thriving.

With a smooth descent, Puck crouched down in front of his boy turned on his side, facing him, and through the darkness with remnants of the moonlight reflected off the white wardrobe doors, he gazed upon him, a figure of no power, no cruelty and no capriciousness, but only akin to the sleeping statue of Eros, though not in bronze, but in marble, of porcelain. With his fair skin stripped of makeup, its tone was not as uniform as with it on, with his cheeks rosier and under eye circles showing, but an overall canvas regal from evening moisturizer. His hair was tousled from sleep, though it spoke not of restless sleep, but of minor movement, perhaps having retired to bed an hour ago, perhaps two from the late hour, the time close to midnight.

For several minutes Puck stayed there staring at the boy, at Kurt, watching his unmoving features on legs that began to ache from crouching so long, his ankles too. Yet he didn't care. Neither did he notice his grip on the drawing had loosened to have it now on the floor in front of him with no hand to pick it up as he reached his fingers out to touch Kurt, perhaps his skin, the hair swept untidily across his forehead, or those full lips moist from Vaseline. Nearer and nearer it came, but the large hand stopped, only to be withdrawn. Like the drawing, the boy was too beautiful to touch, too deep in sleep to be disturbed and yet Puck could not settle to hover his hand over that of Kurt's resting by his side, nor could he look on any longer like this.

The drawing in hand once again, Puck, with swift movements, rounded the bed on the other side, kicked off his sneakers and climbed in, his knees quick to sink into the comforter as he shuffled himself across to lay beside Kurt. The boy had always had a preference for thick inflated looking comforters, light in weight and filled with down feathers that kept one warm throughout the night, making for excellent sleep. There was the same Tempur Cloud mattress and pillows, both also very soft, allegedly NASA developed that redistributed weight whilst reducing pressure during sleep, and though Puck preferred more solid beds with thinner bedding, his tired and limb aching body was quick to take comfort with a relaxed moan as he sank into heaven.

That large hand that had failed to touch now touched as it snuck underneath the comforter to land protectively upon Kurt's stomach, even daring to slide under his pajama top and have his fingers, his palm on that smooth flat stomach, as if Puck not only felt every breath from the boy, but of life within, new life they had created together. In truth, the rise and fall of his big hand spoke of breaths deep and profound, the whole diaphragm in use, the lungs expanding from within like an unconscious breathing exercise, one similar to those seen in Yoga, in movement sessions, or even in couples pregnancy classes that had Puck smiling, his own breath now synchronized with Kurt's as he pressed himself further into him, spooning him ever closer.

He had missed Kurt, missed him like no other, even worried about him too, for there had been rumors that he was injured, that he found it painful to sit down with his lower back sporting a large bruise worse than any locker shove he'd received and all because, in Puck's mind anyway, of the way he'd pushed the boy in gym, that harsh landing that had left him unmoving as if paralyzed and only to spend the remainder of the day in the nurse's office asleep face down on the bed as she had rubbed a whole tube of Arnica gel on the bruising, and all in vain, as the bruise had remained there recounting Puck's anger, Kurt's cries for him to 'come back, Noah! Noah please!' Those screams still ringing in his ears as his smile faded, a wince in its place.

His promise was broken. He'd once ensured Kurt he'd never harm him in any way, even if there was no sign of a bruise as he lifted up the boy's pajama top to reveal an expanse of unblemished skin, relieving him, though his guilt remained. It had been the work of his temper, the memory of that document and what it had signified that had deafened him from Kurt's pleading words, for he'd no longer believed in any word that came out from that mouth. Kurt's, his sweet boy who he still loved but no longer trusted, but wanted to, so wanted to, desperately, for with seeing the drawing of them both in the fancy dress store earlier that day, those words, that  _word_ , and he'd set his mind to return, now here in this room once again, one here with-

With rapid movement, a hand flew up and landed on his, ceasing it's ascending venture to Kurt's heart, Puck's own heart beating wildly in shock, lips parted with shuddering breaths in the midst of a short pause before it was pulled out from under the pajama top to have Kurt now turning to face him with his expression neutral as if he'd known Puck had been here all this time; had never fallen asleep at the start until the familiar silhouette had appeared, that the window was soon opened with the landing of feet on the carpeted floor, closing his eyes in time to have Puck crouching down to look at him, and then the spooning, that warm hand and that presence that he now looked right back at through the dark with blue eyes blown wide.

It was a silence that counted, both of them staring at each other with Kurt taking in Puck's slattern like appearance, the poor condition of his skin, his clothes, his whole being so much more worse for wear up close yet bringing about with it a scruffy, rugged handsomeness that made him all the more masculine, the image of a young working man who had since recovered from the change in Kurt's state to lean into him, the distance closing between them, to near those lips, begging for a taste of that mouth, that sweet, sweet mouth. Yet that mouth was retracted at the last second to have Kurt sitting up and looking down at him still as if to ask if it really was a kiss he wished for, or something else, the true business of his visit questioned.

Soon Puck was on his level with a head rush muddling his thoughts, his sight blurring for a few seconds as he was quick to force himself out of his carnal desire, to cease having it distracting him like this, away indeed from why he'd come, but he could not excuse his forwardness, his hormones. He was with his boyfriend again, Kurt, a boy who'd once rested his sleeping head on his muscular chest and a boy with a fair body he'd seen in its entirety, naked and nude, one he'd held and touched and frotted against and made come to leave fading scratch marks still on his biceps, and all in this very bed that only now had both of them staring at each other with no single word uttered. Where were the words? Who would make or break the night?

"Noah," said Kurt quietly, his voice sexy from an uncleared throat, almost baby high and as soft sounding as the bedding all around them. It wasn't fair. They both knew it was the call for Puck's strong arms to encircle him in a hug, the right pitch and frequency and woven around his given name that only tortured them as they itched to move from his sides and to do more than hug, but he stayed put as he continued to stare Kurt's way as the boy continued to speak, "What are you doing her-"

"What is this?" Asked Puck suddenly, pointedly, cutting Kurt off with a tone chilly and cold as if the boy had disobeyed him, him, a figure of authority like a willful child as he took hold of the drawing beside him and brought it forward, almost dropping it in between them like mere evidence of a crime, the way it was sheathed in a sheet protector, the way he'd handled it as if it had no connection to him what so ever, that he even thought ill of it, that it was distasteful, even offensive to look upon.

"It's um... a picture I drew of us at the time I first realized you loved me. See the date," replied Kurt, his stance softened from its guarded posture as he flipped the picture around to have Puck taking it back and leaning in with squinted eyes. The date, written under Kurt's signature, and the first time he'd taken note of it, was several days after their final big game of the year, their win, the night he had fallen in love with Kurt. "I took inspiration from your letters, but it came to me for the most part."

"And this? When did you write this?" Asked Puck, almost demanding as he pointed down at the text at the bottom of the drawing, that word, derived from 'love' that had been highlighted in hazel eyes now stood out as the jock looked over at him impatiently with those lips closed, all breathing through the nose, and taking in how calm Kurt was, like the still water line inside the glass cut vase, the boy remained collected yet with a face of growing nerves, anxious to reply but replying he did.

"That I wrote today, because today was the day I first realized it," muttered Kurt quietly, watching in pain as thick fingers now gripped tighter to the drawing, on the way to creasing it, the sheet protector there for protection but standing no chance against Puck's strength as it was brought crackling to his chest. Lowered the jock's head now was with quivering breath, as if calming himself, fighting against those words, eyes tight shut as Kurt continued quietly. "I thought you'd like it... don't you?"

"It's fucking beautiful, Kurt. Honestly, when I first saw it, it was so lifelike I could remember when I held you like that for real, when we looked at each other for real," replied Puck strongly, his response a blackened compliment, dark, tragic. "And then I saw what you wrote, and yeah I couldn't believe it, but that was it, I couldn't believe it. I knew all you wanted was to get my attention, pinning it up on the wall like that, you knew what that would do to me Kurt, and all to say you 'love' me? Bullshit."

"Would you have believed me if I'd said it instead?" Asked Kurt, a sense of challenge in his voice that left a pause, Puck now raising his head to look at him. The idea to have instead come out from behind that aisle upon the scene and announce it with the same soothing yet irritating voice of the mall's female announcer, or even sliding into the same fitting room cubicle with the jock in nothing but his underwear. "Is that you want, Noah? You want to see the words come out of my mouth?"

"Fuck you, Kurt," growled Puck menacingly, like a dark teeth bearing creature, as with this growl he unsheathed the drawing from the sheet protector and held it in front as if dangling a struggling kitten in the air by the nape of its neck, his fingers poised at the top, ready to rip the paper in two, to have that sound, that ripping sound, so akin to how his heart had broken and now to show Kurt for himself what he had done. "Is this what  _you_  want? Cause this is what you did. You broke us, Kurt."

"No, I didn't. You did," replied Kurt with a shaking head, "What?!" Shouting on Puck's lips as he went on, "You've led yourself to believe in a delusion you've created yourself, Noah. I've already told you why I wrote that list and when but you still chose to ignore me because you can't forgive yourself for how you once treated me and so how could I ever forgive you in return, how could I not hate you, how could I even love you, and yet here you are ready to rip a drawing that proves you otherwise."

"I am  _not_  deluded, Kurt. I am not," replied Puck forcefully, his words emphasized through a voice that came near to breaking as those fingers trembled, wavering the paper, sending shivers to run down its length as Kurt looked on helplessly, asking, "Then what are you doing?" To which Puck let forth a breath, looking down at the drawing, at those shaded faces that had been left untouched from such misery, before answering, murmuring, "It's the only way I can make you understand, Kurt."

"So you only came to have me watch you rip up my drawing?" Asked Kurt downheartedly, because Puck couldn't have ripped it up behind his back only to send it through the mail. Satisfaction would only arise from watching Kurt's horrified face as Puck would do it in person, ripping and tearing until there was nothing left, and doing it  _so_  easily, to have hundreds upon hundreds of shredded pieces of the drawing scattered across the bed, its physical integrity destroyed, Kurt's heartfelt words in tatters.

"No... I... I don't know," faltered Puck, guilt and frustration rampant within him. Looking over at the boy on the bed and he felt like the bully again, like 'Puck', as if he were stealing lunch money from a poor defenseless freshman on his first day of school,  _that_  bully, with fists that cracked for blood, and it tore him apart. Kurt's fair canvas was swathed in such stricken emotion and so  _innocent_ , he could not do it, his hands lowering to have the drawing now resting in his lap as his head now hung down.

"If you don't want the drawing Noah, I'll take it back," replied Kurt quietly, his hand now outstretched with his palm open to Puck, as if he was feeding a hesitant animal knowing not whether to run or to stay. "I'm sorry I gave it you the way I did, but I just had to let you know," said only for the drawing to be retracted, Puck's eyes hardened. "Noah please, give it back," said to the shake of a head. "Noah you can't keep it without believing it. You know I'm telling the truth, why can't you believe me?"

"Because you broke my heart!" Roared Puck. "I trusted you, Kurt! I held you in my arms when I came out to you and I trusted you! I loved you! I wanted you to know me utterly, no one else, not even my own family, just you! I wanted you all to myself because I loved you and I wanted you to love me back! And the worst part of it is, you knew how much this all meant to me, but you obviously didn't feel the same did you, because if you really cared you wouldn't have kept such a massive secret!"

"What secret? That I once hated your guts! You already knew I did Noah, and I'm not going to feel guilty for it either, cause I had a damn right reason to hate you the way you treated me," fumed Kurt. "Apart from what you did to me at school, I heard rumors of what you planned to do. Putting Rogaine in my hand lotion, tying me up and leaving me over night in a corn field, even nailing all my patio furniture to my roof with me super glued to one of the chairs as if I was a Ken doll to a Barbie set."

"Yeah I get it Kurt, I was jerk, and it doesn't matter how many times I say I'm sorry you're never gonna see me as anything but that jerk, right?" Replied Puck to see Kurt sighing out a breath of growing irritation, how they were not getting, but going around in circles with the sorely tempted need to scream into his pillow or to pound every little down feather in the comforter. "Even after everything we've been through, because of that list I'm always gonna think you have a knife behind your back."

"Well then there's nothing more I can do for you is there," sighed Kurt disappointedly, unclenching his fists that had served to scrunch up the comforter beside him as his body appeared to slouch in defeat. "I may not be able to forget you bullied me but I forgave you Noah. You're not the only one to struggle with your sexuality and internalized homophobia. There are plenty out there Noah like you, and I guess your feelings for me weren't as secure as I thought they were. You just need more time."

"I don't fucking need 'time' Kurt, I know what I feel."

"So do I, and it's too bad you don't believe me, because I love you."

"Shut up."

"I love you, I love you, I love you!"

"Kurt, shut the fuck up!" Shouted Puck as with lighting quick movement, the drawing was brandished in the air with anger, as if the jock were now holding a bleeding head, decapitated with an axe he himself had brought down as he positioned his fingers at the top and with that, the forthcoming descent, yet it never came, the blade never came down. For in the wake of his own gasp, Kurt had snatched it clean out of Puck's grasp fast enough to almost leave a paper cut sliced through the flesh.

It had been a struggle from the start. The Tempur Cloud mattress had since adjusted to Puck's form, the comforter, so  _thick_ , had got in the way, almost tripping him up with his leg pulled at an odd angle that had had him wincing, but his energy had been game like with huffing breath, his body in full charge with Titan speed as he'd pelted after Kurt, the boy making for the bathroom, entering with the door closing, near to locking but stopped as with a charging barge, Puck rammed into it with a deep grunt, bolstering all the power in his broad shoulders to slam it open as Kurt retreated with a panting chest, the picture placed mockingly over his heart, "Oh so you're wanting it now, Noah? Where are you going to keep it? Next to your  _heart_?"

The jock was now a great bulking figure in the doorway, breathing hard with a sullen face as angry and as reddened as his throbbing shoulder, whilst the door itself had not flipped back against him as expected but had instead stayed fixed to the wall, as if it had been rammed with force great enough to have lodged the doorknob right into the plaster, fixing it there, but it was not the flurry of attention. In the ambient honey tinted lighting, they saw each other through blurred wincing eyes. Kurt's shoulder bare from his lopsided pajama top resembling a ruffled blue-eyed doll and Puck, lunging forward with hands outstretched, his hoodie stained with tomato sauce, his exhaustion, but with such emotion as he battled for their hearts.

The cries, the whimpers that ricocheted off the walls, and all Kurt's, though the boy fought on through every one of Puck's demands to "give it back!" To which he'd reply, "No!" And always 'no', as Puck would beg not have to hurt him, to not make him do this, just to "give it back!" Yet Kurt grappled on through his pain, his arms now covered in Chinese Burn looking marks, through a growing state of devastation wrought on by their struggle as products were knocked over, some to fall to the ground and shatter as gooey product as glittery as the sea of shattered glass itself, poured over the tiles, making them slip, cutting the soles of their feet as with a final cry, Kurt grabbed hold of Puck's hoodie and yanked him flush against him.

"Kiss me," breathed Kurt, stilling their bodies in mid combat as Puck looked down at him through a flushed face, his chest rising and falling, gulping as he panted breath that smelled of carbohydrate and sugar junk, comfort food and days of it heavy on Kurt's face, made ever shinier from the fight, as if his nights spoke only of sweat inducing nightmares, the smell of panic attacks on the skin, but radiant in Puck's hazel eyes as he swallowed down Kurt's words, his plea to, "Kiss me now, Noah."

"W-what?" Stuttered Puck, almost stupidly, as if he hadn't understood what Kurt had meant by words that had his heart jumping right into his throat, now lodged there at the sight of tears springing up in Kurt's blue eyes, so glassy, so reflective Puck could see his own with attention no longer on the drawing he'd managed to pry from Kurt, its surface creased beyond repair with its corners bent and rips and tears abundant on its badly brayed edges as it now dropped to the floor. "K-kurt..."

"I love you," whispered Kurt as with those tears that had welled along his waterline like an overflowing bath, water sprinkled in bath salts and as clear a water as any, finally gave way and rolled down his cheeks to the sound of silence, the words hitting Puck as if it were the first time Kurt had said them. Love. Kurt loved him, his fair boy was in love with him and in that moment with dry lips that trembled, with his breathing laboring as if his heart still lodged his windpipe, the kiss was given.

Kiss, and it was a hard kiss, one of passion that had Puck's arms almost encircling his whole waist with a hand that gripped onto him, the other cradling the back of his head, gentle, the head of a new born baby's. Yet the cries and whimpers that sounded through the room were now not of Kurt's, those strangled whimpers akin to a wounded animal, dying alone and crying out for help, desperate, but that was what Puck now felt, he was desperate, with emotion so deep to have Kurt with him again, his thick happy tongue in the boy's mouth, to have his taste, now salted as their tears trickled down their moving cheeks, they're working jaws and in through their lips, their passionate lips that made love, fusing their love, for it was love.

It was the need for air, huge gulp fulls of it as if they were near to passing out that had their near swollen lips parting but their bodies close and their hands and arms wound tightly around each other, entwining them, like ivy that interlaced the tall tree trunks of the forest. The unshaven stubble on Puck's jaw and chin, left alone to grow out for days had both scratched and tickled Kurt amidst the shuffling kiss, prickling with soft spines as he looked at them, Puck's button nose and hazel eyes, reddened from tears, for the jock had been crying as well. There Puck looked back at him, face to face with such fair beauty that he now hugged with clinging arms, burying his face in the crook of Kurt's neck, now holding him as no boy ever would.

For a time, both of them stayed in their embrace, Puck swaying them slowly from side to side and Kurt rubbing his broad back upon hearing muffled words in his neck, cute sounding that had him smiling, but words of, "I don't d-deserve you, Kurt," that had the boy frowning, now shivering when the tears hit his skin, when Puck lapped his neck nervously with little licks of the tongue like kitten drinking milk. With those muscular arms so strong and so tight around him, it was a challenge to pull free but Kurt only meant to lead him through the hazardous floor of spilled creams and smashed glass to the bedroom where they now stood upon the printed carpet of their nation, looking at each other with only the moonlight as their grand illumination.

Puck's face spoke of such happiness, sniffling teary happiness, that he soon wiped away with the back of his hand, yet with the shadows crossing his face, the smile he sported was disheartened looking, speaking of guilt and regret. Those days of tyrannical torment, bruises, cuts, nosebleeds, to having almost cost his relationship this night had torn his insides out to a heart now beating in the center, sown up in stitches, bandaged and promising full recovery. With Kurt's hand cupping his cheek, he was softly assured, "It's alright Noah, it's going to be alright. I'm here." For it was going to take time, as Kurt had said, but they were now here together, with dry tear marks on cheeks, hands on each other with Puck's smile heartening.

To the sounds of the singing iHome now playing through the room, the work of Kurt's fingers and how they palmed their way across the sleek black console, so sleek it almost made to slip the finger, even the most calloused of fingers, that of Puck's himself, across the reflective surface, a tune arose, that of sex by the erotic nature of the lyrics, a soft beat, meant for soft, slow sex with Rihanna at the microphone cooing in her Barbadian vernacular. It served to catch Puck's attention with his head swiveling around, slow as the tempo demanded and neutralizing his expression with confused curiosity yet with eyes stolen as the space was cleared before him, the coffee table with fluttering falling papers, the chairs, all moved aside just for them.

Kurt now appeared further away than before. At least two strides worth of Puck's long legs could reach him, yet as the jock made to close the distance, a hand was raised as the signal. 'Stop', it said, 'Just watch me', to watch as a silk pajama top, glimmering, almost shimmering in the moonlight like that of the iridescence of beautiful fish scales from the guanine platonic crystals in the skin, fell off skin so fair it was as if no ray of sunlight had kissed it, only those of the moon, the night sun. And like that, Kurt's chest was bare, and like that, with his briefs sliding down his thighs, the boy was in the nude, in just skin and with such pride it was being worn as if no price could be placed on it, the only one of it's kind in all its finery, utterly gorgeous.

_The mood is set so you already know what's next_   
_TV on blast, turn it down, turn it down, don't want it to clash with my body screaming now_   
_I know you hearing it, you got me moaning now, I got a secret that I want to show you, oh_   
_I got a secret I'mma drop them to the floor, oh…_

Those hazel robs had blackened, for Puck's lust was flooding hot and startling into his eyes, lips and cheeks, making his whole face and body open like a bull in heat, pumped with frothing testosterone that had him near to ripping off his tight wife beater once his jacket had been stripped by those hands, to get it off, to match Kurt's nakedness in a flash, yet a hand rose again with a finger wagging playfully. The gulp of excitement, his feet almost springy on their soles as if about to jog on the spot were all calmed with Kurt's hands, their eyes never breaking, the music legato, everything legato. It made it all the better as with a sharp intake of breath, the air hit his skin, his chest now bare, like Kurt's, desperate to have them touch, skin on skin.

The light ting of hitting metal and Kurt was on his knees unbuckling Puck's belt with fingers that wove themselves around far better than the jock's had himself, undoing his jeans with the button popping and with a jolting tug, they were pulled down to shuffling feet soon made naked from their socks. Commando Puck was, as Kurt rose once again, yet he would save the best for last as he smiled, tracing Puck's unwashed chest, sweetly pungent body odor emanating even in the grooves of the jock's muscles, but oh how they said so much as his traveling fingers descended upon a frieze of groin hair, coarse and bristly with an erect manhood now pulsing hotly in his hand, so warm and so well hung, his smile widened as did Puck's, chuckling, happy.

_No teasing, you waited long enough_   
_Go deep, I'mma throw it at you can't catch it,_   
_don't hold back, you know I like it rough_   
_Know I'm feeling you, huh. Know your liking it, huh…_

In one of the vanity drawers, perhaps unlocked by a key, for it was an antique vanity, 19th century European with the white paint peeling to leave behind a worn vintage affect, a bottle of Wet Platinum Lubricant was brought out, popped open and poured into fair palms, warm palms massaging, since made hot from Puck's length that twitched upon sight, yet with too much coming out, lotion droplets trickled down his arms, some falling to the carpet below, for it was first time Kurt had used it. He'd ordered it online as a spur of the moment purchase after much research and nervous curiosity, but he'd not known what to do with it upon receiving it. Silly. All that pleasure research having been tucked away in his drawer along with the big bottle itself.

Puck's face creased with emotion, yet it relaxed with a sagging mouth that moaned guttural moans, as those slick wet hands wrapped themselves around his penis, hands that called upon research that had since gathered grey dust in Kurt's mind. The many steps; placement, pressure, articulation, squeezing at the base and pulling off with one slow motion, the fair boy's eyes were closed in memory. Alternating hands, changing direction with squeezes to the head, little squeezes to have thin white moisture spouting from the slit, like squeezing the golden sponge cake of a Twinkie to have the filling cream oozing, almost bursting out, before sliding down the thick shaft, the sheer girth widening his working hand and sliding off, sticky, and so wet.

It was the light tugs, the gentle pull of his balls, even the stroking of his untrimmed pubic hair as if it were down feathers from the insides of Kurt's comforter that had Puck's head in the air, eyes a flutter with puckered lips that let forth groans ever more strangled. The words he was saying, they were not words, at best half of them with the rest left to trail into the air as moans. He'd since shot out an arm to grab unto one of the four bedposts for support, gripping it firmly, making it creak, even sway as his legs fell numb with knees subtly shaking, bent loosely with this hips pathetically thrusting into Kurt's hand, wishing to help those soft, magical hands in any way possible, and for them not to stop, to never stop as he whimpered, whimpered for more.

_So are why you standing over there with your clothes on,_   
_Baby strip down for me, go on take them off_   
_Don't worry baby, I'mma meet you half way,_   
_Cause I know you want to see me…_

And then the breath came, rising up the stretch of his thick neck, that Adam's apple bobbing up and down with a gulp, until the ear was hit, reddened from the heat. The shell circulated the current, a current of soft whispers that had Kurt's moving lips brushing against the lobe, "you're so big, baby. Stretching my hand like this. Making it work up and down just like that, Come on stud, fuck it, fuck my hand." And with that, fucking, those brawny hips, those thighs, bucked away like crazy, with Puck's torso leaning back perilously, his head following suit with enough of his weight to drag the bed across the ground by the bedpost he was still clinging to, as if teetering off a precipice and holding on for his life as Kurt pushed him off the edge.

Through the squelching sounds as manhood fucked through the hand, oh how they were delicious to the ears, a fair finger was released down south and with a slight fumbling, clumsy like from the thrusts, the small dime sized indentation of the perineum was hit, lurching Puck forward back upright with a razor sharp gasp, convulsing, almost spasming uncontrollable as if he'd been stabbed in the stomach but instead of spurting blood from his gaping mouth, gasping grunts, instead of bleeding, about to shoot as Kurt's fingers ever so gently circled, pushed and pulled at his soft underside, his 'sacred spot', now 'juicing' the head of his length as if juicing a lemon, now rubbing his shaft as if to start a fire, his eyes were rolling white as if undead.

This was not masturbation. It was too exotic in execution to the mere touch from a dry hand with calloused guitar playing fingers in comparison. Rather it was trantric sex, praise in the form of the Lingam massage, honoring the Lingam or 'Wand of Light' to expand the man's ability to receive pleasure, yet ejaculation was not the point, merely a pleasant side effect that Kurt now performed as his movements slowed, reducing stimulation, yet it was too late. Puck was not yet past the 'point of no return', but he was close, his balls tightening, his words, "babe, b-baby, oh Christ! You're gonna make me come," now having Kurt firmly squeezing the tip of his penis for thirty seconds, holding it desperately back, holding it off, to make it stop.

Those bucking hips, those thrusts, making up for losing friction in Kurt's slacking hand, making to burn his palm, making to chafe itself. It was not in the jock's plans to hold back orgasms. More than six, it was said, and a tremendous amount of sexual energy could be stored, which the man could either retain to circulate throughout other parts of his body or to be released, yet with release now near, Kurt's face flickered into panic. Nothing he did to prevent the end was working, with all moves only spurring the panting, near sweating jock on harder. He wished to stay true to the Lingam massage, but he feared the reaction, for he knew it, how those sounding groans could so easily howl in anger, and all of them directed right at him.

_Almost there so baby don't stop what you're doing_   
_Softer than a mother boy I know you what to touch, breathing down my neck I can tell you want to…_   
_And now you want it like, want you to feel it now, I got a secret that I want to show you oh,_   
_I got a secrets I'mma drop them to the floor, oh…_

It came with the following hoarse voiced words, pleading through blinking eyes that appeared to have awoken from a dream that spoke of his decision, "H-hey, hey, whoa, baby, where are you going? Come back, I was close." For Kurt's hands had let go to fall limp in the other right before the climax, one with such great a build, now cradling their well-worn wrists, their palms sore as the jock looked on with mounting frustration, one that had blood thumping in his temples in a 'what the fuck?' fashion before dying down upon the clearing sight of the little fair boy in front, nursing himself as if he'd hurt himself in the midst of the massage with an apologetic smile looking back up at him through eyelashes that blinked in the silence, blinked at him.

"Oh shit babe, did I hurt you? Fuck," hurried Puck worriedly, dashing on over to Kurt with his anger forgotten, the orgasm, the intensity it promised, possibly the greatest, forgotten as he like a caring father inspected the damage with Kurt insisting, "No, it's okay, they're just a little red." Yet the jock caught those dismissively waving hands only to ask with concerned eyes now fixed, "Are you sure? They look like friction burns," soon replied shyly with, "No, I'm sure. I was going to pull away anyway."

"You were? Why?" Asked Puck frowning with his head rising from the inflamed looking hands that were now cradled in his, the fingers pink, but the palm full on red, the same shade of red the vaginas of most girls he'd slept with resembled after sex, the result of a thorough fucking, sometimes fucked too hard when fantasies of Kurt had ripened in his mind, but painful to look at, painful to look down at his own dick now as it remained erect and angry, the same shade, everything the shade of angry sex.

"I mean, I was doing was something that's called the Lingam massage," replied Kurt, lowering his eyes to their hands, "It was a way of touching you through massage, not through masturbation where the goal is to, you know, come, but to bring about pleasure and relaxation, and I wanted to give you that in a way you hadn't experienced before after our fight," said as blue eyes now rose to Puck's, hazel rich and warm, "I don't know. I thought you'd like it maybe... please don't be mad at me."

"I'm not mad at you, baby."

"Are you sure? I know how you love your orgasms."

"I do, but your hands have done enough for now."

"Then how do you want me to-"

"Nu-uh babe, it's my turn now," smirked Puck, that handsome smirk now lowering to kiss each and every one of Kurt's fingers, tasting the unscented lubricant on the pink flesh, the consistency of thin liquid petroleum jelly along with the faint residue taste of his manhood as he sucked on them. And kissed the palms in the center, both fine lined and baby soft, licking them, lapping them up, only to turn them over to graze those knuckles, the delicate roof of the hand bored down on with a kiss.

_No teasing, you waited long enough_   
_Go deep, I'mma throw it at you can't catch it,_   
_don't hold back, you know I like it rough_   
_Know I'm feeling you, huh. Know you're liking it, huh…_

Out of the stained bootleg jeans on the floor was taken out a silver square packet that shimmered in the moonlight, crackling crisply like a candy wrapper, ripped open eagerly like a candy wrapper at the top to reveal a circular white condom, the soft dome raised in the center resembling the silicon nipple of a baby's pacifier. There it was rolled down the shaft, and so tight it looked, painfully tight, as if it were suffocating it in a bag with stretch marks straining in the latex upon the thick girth before the  _pop_! Kurt's lubricant bottle was opened to pour into those masculine hands that worked it, and worked it good as they soon had the condom glistening in that slick, colorless almost gooey looking liquid that now neared Kurt as Puck neared him.

Penetration. Anal. It had a heavy affiliation with gay men, seen as their version of intercourse; with some ignorant enough to claim you weren't a true homosexual if you didn't engage in it. In theory, Kurt found it arousing, in practice it scared him. The hurt, the thing of hard looking rubber that was greased and knobby at the end shoved into the crack of his buttocks and then up inside him like a beak plunging in.  _In_ ,  _in_  and as far _in_  as it could go until the wiry pubic hairs would scrape him, those balls like wrecking balls smacking his skin, spank like in sound, retracted to have him hobbling to the toilet with a face contorted in agony at the searing pain he would not comprehend as blood would seep, horrid brownish blood that would bleed for days.

The handsome beauty of Puck's manhood, one he knew well, only appeared disfigured to Kurt, an alien like creature he did not know anymore, could not recognize under all this lubricant resembling diluted semen and that condom, knowing what it was for and nearing him, coming to touch his own, yet like that, he was hard. The work of living out a fantasy, one of taboo, or how that condom was only for safety, the lubricant there to help, not to instill fear. His own member stood erect against Puck's, their shafts rubbing as if like two animals displaying affection for each other, or even a romantic take on mild sword fighting, a game they'd never played as children, but how for the first time they were children again, smiling and laughing.

"What do you think, babe? You up for it? Cos I think it'll be awesome," smiled Puck through dying chuckles, his tone near as enthusiastic as a seven old boy might dream of owning a dirt bike, a comparison that would strike an accord with the jock, for kissing and having sex with a boy had been mere dreams to him, for Kurt to, but oh how hopeful Puck appeared now as he swayed his fair boy from side to side by the hips, those hands large enough to move that light body without much real effort.

"Awesome to make man love and shit?" Joked Kurt as Puck let forth a round of deep laughter, the classic vernacular of the stereotypical jock, of Puck himself, sounding on Kurt's tongue a real tickler to the belly as, "Totally babe," was chuckled out, only to die and to properly die with a frown as he took in Kurt's face, now devoid of his amusement. "I don't know, Noah. I mean, I know you want to make me feel as good as I did to you, but I hear it hurts... a lot, and that scares me a little bit."

"Kurt, you know I'd never hurt you."

"I know you wouldn't, it's just..."

"It's scary, I know. My heart's kinda beating down here too."

"It is?"

"It always is when you're near me, Kurt," cooed Puck to blue eyes now softening. "Remember when I said I wanted our first time to be romantic? Well, with us making up, that massage thing you did and us naked and fooling around like we don't give a fuck, like we've known each other for years yet hold each other like this at the same time, I think that's pretty damn romantic, baby, and never have I wanted to fuck you so bad, nice and slow like I promised, making real man love and shit."

Puck's wish for sex was high, but it was not breathless as if he'd just emerged out of the surf at Topanga. He wanted to make love and not make it fast, even if he'd wanted to, for even though taking it slow was the savoring of the taste, of the feeling, first time sex was more often than not painful. The ring of the anus, that ring of tight muscle, would be stretched on a thick girth to sting like no other and it would be torturous for Puck to hear those whimpers bitten down on full lips, that beautiful face made near unsightly from such creasing to its fair skin. Kurt's dismay at the prospect, like a waiting patient contemplating his surgeon, was justified, yet the doubt was now sinking in those eyes, surfacing something else floating on the waterline.

It was not a matter of acting coy, that irritating pretense that girls had brought to Puck's bedroom as an alluring act, even the MILFS of Lima with their bleached blonde locks, leopard roaring prints and tall 'come fuck me' heels that had had Puck prying them inbetween their legs with rough hands to see if they were  _wet_ , to just get on with it, pinching their nipples and stroking them forcibly before the plunge. No, Kurt's bedroom shyness was genuine, and with it very sexy, yet with Puck's words, it was as if the boy had been rhythmically petted into a trance that now could not be stopped. His fair length that had since dangled down to half-mast to arise once again and with his own words now pouring, so did Puck's, "Oh Noah... I'm crazy about you."

_So why you standing over there with your clothes on,_   
_Baby strip down for me, go on take them off_   
_Don't worry baby, I'mma meet you half way,_   
_Cause I know you want to see me…_

The kiss was brought down upon Kurt with vigor, all open mouthed and sexy squelching kissing hot with not enough time for tongues to duel as no single one lasted more than a second, a quick counted second. There was too much stretch of this skin to praise, the side of that puffed up mouth, the cheekbone below full cheeks and the underside of such a close shaven jaw, it was too smooth, too damn good. For this was the way Puck always kissed when an onset of such emotion over ran him, in his own trance that now startled Kurt as he shuffled the boy from the center of the room on near tripping feat into the streaming moonlight, those hands squeezing that cute bubble butt, kneading it as if it were full of jelly, and moaning. Oh, the moaning.

The lubricant bottle was slammed onto the vanity's surface with a fumbling hand pressed onto it for support, enough to have it explode as Puck's body nearly fell off kilter, teetering from quick unprecise movements, yet only a palm full was squirted out to re-slick the condom that had had to be irritatingly readjusted to remove the way it had bunched up at the tip from going soft, as well as a finger, slicked up and descending to Kurt's buttocks, sheathing itself inbetween the globes but blindly poking away, such slickness having his finger slip, each time missing it, only to be stopped by the wrist and directed in instead. Puck's flaming face of lost patience calmed with Kurt's light smile until that mouth opened, until with a sudden heat, Kurt screamed.

Those broad shoulders were now supports to fair hands as they gripped on tightly, missing the bruise that had since formed from barging down the bathroom door, and pulling Kurt flush against that muscular chest to the sexiest whimper the jock had ever heard; high-pitched like tinkling glass, though choked through gasps, sad little squeaks like a mouse being murdered, but a mating call none the less for only Puck to answer. The soles of the boy's feet had risen on their tip toes with one fair leg already wrapped around the jock's hip, and with Puck softly bucking against him, frotting, licking the crook of his neck, kissing it with words, "Oh God b-baby, I got you. My sweet... my sweet little angel," Kurt's eyes fluttered closed. He was in heaven.

The second finger entered, there was a shiver, the third finger entered, a moan, yet with the fourth, a growl of impatience rumbled through Kurt, his nails digging into Puck's skin as he whispered harshly, "Damn it Noah, fuck that boy pussy already," filthy words that roiled those hazel irises into blackened lust filled chasms that had him lifting Kurt into his arms, winding fair legs around his hips, and so easily too, a body so light in one so strong, as seamless as their skin. As now in the moonlight, with Kurt's hands jutting out onto the wobbling vanity, he was lifted, the position fixed, eyes connected, yet one now wincing as he was gently lowered, easy, steady, slow, down that shaft,  _down_ , _down_  and  _in_ , until he was  _full_ , that Big Thing so  _deep_.

_No heels, no shirt, no skirt, all I'm in is just skin_   
_No jeans, take them off, want to feel your skin_   
_You're a beast, oh. You know that I like that_   
_Come here baby, all I want to see you in is just skin…_

It was known as the 'upstanding citizen position', categorized as advanced that relied on a lot of upper body strength, loose knees, thighs apart and not recommended for those with bad backs, the support of a wall encouraged. Yet so boldly had Puck lifted Kurt to straddle him, to recreate the pictures on those sex position websites, the detailed illustrations that his mind had morphed those drawn faces into his and Kurt's, and to imagine, for he'd always wished to have sex in this position, saving it for just for Kurt, like a present with the boy's name on it. A sexy present, intimate, Thor like strength boasting as Kurt would ride him in his arms, his biceps bulging like his body, all bulging, and all romantic. Ever so romantic, just like Puck had wished.

It had hurt Kurt at first, with pain near excruciating enough to jump right off, to run into the bathroom with his hands clasped to his buttocks and to hop from one foot to the other like a child bursting to pee, screaming silently with a gaping mouth, eyes tight shut, as they were now. He was breathing in and out steadily, ridding himself of these thoughts and readjusting his sweat slipping hands around the nape of Puck's neck, Puck himself also breathing with a chest fluctuating, as if forcing himself not to climax, growling it away for Christ was Kurt  _tight_ , virgin  _tight_ , and so  _hot_  inside, so tempting to fuck, and fuck deep, yet he would await the word, Kurt's word the law that now had his breath catching in his throat, choking, "Noah, baby, fuck me."

That tongue speaking dirty. It would get Puck every time, as if Kurt wouldn't even think of mud pies as being made from mud, but of chocolate buttercream icing to throw about and to eat, and to moan as he'd eat it, like he moaned now as those large hands that came near to spanning the full width of both his ivory buttocks were clenched on a descent, Puck's loose knees now bent, lowering them together. And there with his manhood near retracted, near enough to come out with a playful  _pop_ , those hips bucked on the rise, an ascent that had Kurt's body arching on with his hand once again grabbing onto the vanity, the desk shaking through the vibrations that had his products shuddering along the surface, closer and closer to the edge.

The thrusts were slow, lust ridden and  _so_  deep, with Puck's pelvis kept fluid in motion, that pelvis of cocky swagger filling Kurt on every upraised buck, and with he himself building courage to rotate his hips, gyrating them until by accident his prostate was hit and he was screaming, "Oh God! Yeah, Noah! Yes! Fuck me!" And Puck fucked him, now faster, now harder, always hitting that spot and doing it good, because Kurt liked it there, his baby liked it like that, and he liked it too, his own profane grunts rapturous, infuriatingly interrupting him from sucking on Kurt's erect nipples, merely breathing all over them, hardening them, but he couldn't help it. He felt too good in the now squealing boy, "Yeah,  _squeal_  for me, baby.  _Squeal_  for that big dick!"

_All in baby don't hold nothing back,_   
_want to take control, ain't nothing with that_   
_Say you like it how I feel you got to tell me that_   
_Just put your skin baby on my skin…_

This was sex, in what it was meant to be, and not the way Puck's teacher had briefly narrated their sex education video as if he'd been talking about hydraulics, with not much to say, yet at the same time, so much he'd been paralyzed to begin. And talk of romance, that 'making love' bullshit, how romance and the machinery of men did not mix, was only scoffed at, with sex of such nature having been brought alive in every sexual encounter Puck had ever had. Cheerios who'd faked, sex starved MILFS and their loose pussies, even they had been too cynical for romance with prying hands dirty for his 'baby tool', but they could go screw themselves. Hey, he was fucking Kurt Hummel. Romance was the little life they were now making together.

The jock's hand was released from Kurt's buttock and blindly swiped across the vanity's surface, clearing it from the lubricant bottle, and sending everything falling, greater liters of expensive liquid seeping into the carpet as the fair boy was rested on the desk and fucked, the mirror digging into his back, the whole thing swaying perilously on legs about to snap, break even into splintered pieces of flying wood as those thrusts pounded into him. It was the thrill that Kurt's father was asleep two stories up, that he, the muscular bad boy, smirking down at Kurt, was taking his son's innocence, and a son who wanted it because he  _liked_  it, and that his son was good at it, making this bad boy whimper, making him cry out, "Sweet Je- _sus_ , Kurt!"

Kurt's own hand that gripped hard to Puck's bicep for support, his other on the desk, now moved down to touch himself and to do it quickly, for Puck was nearing the end. The slight contortment in his handsome sweat slicked face, the breathing pattern, Kurt was rushing himself and clumsily, made harder with the jock's thrusts, yet his hand was swatted away to be replaced with one darker, the palm sweaty and wet from spit freshly spat as Puck pumped his hard shaft, swirling the leaking tip and all with a hand so large, that sexy guitar playing, calloused fingered hand with hair on the back that touched him and touched him good, the way Puck had touched himself for thinking of him, and how like Puck, Kurt's eyes rolled white, gaping.

It was a scream that sounded as if the body had lost its voice, taken down with a cold; throaty, husky, a sexual moan of a scream, of pleasure that now breached the 'point of no return', that brought Kurt to orgasm by his boyfriend's milking hand, showering his body with pearl white semen that shot out in bursts, as if repeatedly stamping on a thick doughnut with the cream filling spurting out. It was soiled skin, Kurt's penis still bucking into Puck's hand and how this hand loved this penis, and gave it what it wanted, squeezing every last drop and never letting go, pumping right through an orgasm so large that that mouth would not close, that gaping cunt shaped mouth for stuffing a cock in breathing unevenly as Kurt flopped on the desk.

_No heels, no shirt, no skirt, all I'm in is just skin_   
_No jeans, take them off, want to feel your skin_   
_You're a beast, oh. You know that I like that_   
_Come here baby, all I want to see you in is just skin…_

Those brawny hips that had since powered down into slower, gentler thrusts were quick to resume as Kurt was hoisted up by those arms to straddle Puck once again, pulled flush chest to chest with the wet warmth of his semen now tickling the jock's abs, Puck's muscle carved torso that thrusted desperately to near an end that had him hugging Kurt tighter, Kurt clenching himself down hard on his penis, the jock now shuddering in consecutive broken convulsions, seizure like in nature, his breath quivering against the red lobe of Kurt's ear, biting lightly down on his shoulder only to let forth a sad strangled howl as if he were weeping, ropes upon ropes of semen shooting out into the condom, too much, near to bursting it open, overfilling Kurt.

The air was thick with breath, moist humid air that had since misted the bedroom window over, the vanity's mirror too with the glass still tremoring as Puck rode his overruling orgasm through soft oddly rhythmic pumps that had Kurt's fair buttocks rippling. This time however, no deep chested grunts sounded, but high little cries that rendered the jock's climax all the more emotional, for it had been, as if he'd been reunited with Kurt after so long. The way he'd held him during, the way he'd shared with him his orgasm as he'd fucked him with care, chokingly whispering again as if in anguish and teary eyed, "I love you Kurt, I love you, f- _fuck_ , I love you," with Kurt's eyes near welling as he'd pulled the boy who loved him so into the crook of his neck.

The tufts of that damp Mohawk were petted lightly, as if petting the neck of a rabbit with only two fingers, and Kurt stayed there doing it until he could feel Puck softening within him, wishing to now settle back down to the ground, for the jock was exhausted. Yet Puck only tightened his grip, bringing his face out of his fair neck to kiss him the way only a boy in love would know how to kiss, passionately, hot, wet and slow. And all the while as Puck's feet stumbled their way over to the bed, nearly colliding Kurt's back with the bedpost, until he felt the mattress at his knees, lowering Kurt onto the comforter as he slowly pulled himself out, rid himself of the used condom before propping himself up above his nestled angel, smiling with such heart.

_All I want to see you in is just Skin…_

_"_ You were right, that was  _awesome_ ," smiled Kurt with a hand to Puck's cheek, those cheeks vibrating under his stroking touch as the jock chuckled breathily, a "totally," on his parted lips. His hazel eyes were glass like, still watery as if he were about to cry but a tear was never shed, only blinked profusely away. His worn aching arms slid under Kurt's with his hands cupping the boy's head, chest to chest and looking down, closer this time, upon those cute little pores glistening with a sheen of sweat.

"I love you, Noah," and not whispered to prevent Puck sinking further into him, into a deep, damply snoring sleep that would have Kurt wincing in pain, trying to move into a more comfortable position, for the jock was a big hulking boy, heavy with his muscle that was now painful to move, his size even rendering Kurt's big four poster bed small, the bed becoming  _too_  small, but because Kurt's words were of the truth, 'I love you', yes, every one was said with such heartfelt ease, it was amazing.

Not even Puck's praising words of, "Oh baby," were finished in the air, but in Kurt's mouth as he lay a desperate kiss on those lips, swollen and bee stung from all the kissing, for the jock had kissed Kurt as many times as he could during sex, tongue on most, because he liked tongue when kissing and so much joy from just kissing, kissing his boyfriend,  _his boyfriend,_ kissing Kurt who loved Noah Puckerman in this rumpled state of a bed that now rocked. He was tired, exhausted and beat, but he was hard, bucking up against Kurt's growing length, with his large hand arching his back and kissing him all the time and making him come, and come hard, because Kurt loved it. Puck was his boyfriend and they _loved_  each other, and  _fuck_ , what a love.


	28. The Dark Prince

The kitchen table top was strewn with food, too much food; butterscotch scones made from pounds of Crisco, maple syrup coated pancakes with coconut shavings, pain au chocolates with sliced bananas and fruit cups with non-pulped orange juice that threatened to spill from their glasses. Tall glasses, wide plates and everything so well presented, well, as well presented as Burt could have gotten it from the work of an unartistic eye, but a mind and body of effort, as the man propped himself nonchalantly at the table on dashing feet, dropping the morning paper and ripping it with a "Shit," as he flicked with fumbling desperate fingers over to the sports page and all just in time for the arrival of his son, those nearing footsteps now present.

He'd noticed this past week of near full plates of food pushed away, items barely touched and left to go cold in the bin from the scrape with cutlery meant not to stab and prod, but to skate across the surface, and he had not scolded Kurt for 'playing' with his food, for it hadn't been playing. Too little energy in the wrist to merely pick of the knife and fork had been very heavy indicators, and not once had he heard his son's stomach growl in protest either, or maybe it had. Maybe Kurt had forced it quiet when in his company, now unrestrained as it now sounded with a moanful longing at the food lain before the boy, like a feast that had been cooked since six that morning, the flavors that promised to melt on the tongue, the  _smell_. It smelt good!

Hair and makeup was done, clothes were on, and of the pale pastels and dark skinny jeans kind. There was a risk to staining this sculpture, yet a plate was grabbed, and soon laden with a breakfast with enough maple syrup to splatter. A wide smile was soon to stretch behind the ripped newspaper and with eyes that peeked around the scores of the latest football game, laughter burst out for Kurt was wolfing down his food whilst still retaining the table manners his mother had taught him when young, mouth closed with no noise, swallowing his food before going in for another forkful with his white napkin folded neatly on his lap, though with blue eyes of a dog panting for it's food, a dog hungry as hell, even rabid like, for what such good food!

"Morning to you too son," chuckled Burt as with a crackling, the paper was folded and laid on his lap, for there wasn't enough room on the table, which would have been shuddering across the floor if he himself had been famished. Yet Kurt, through his eating, was still polite enough to throw him an apologetic look, downing his juice, wiping his mouth and giving a little wave, "Good morning," on lips that now smelt of fruit and pancake as Burt smiled, "How are you? Glad to see you eating again."

"Well this food simply can't go uneaten. It's delicious," replied Kurt with hands that reacquainted themselves with metal tools that felt no longer like clunky things in his hand, as if he were handling heavy oil greased machinery he simply didn't have the energy to operate, and even if he tried, operate worth a damn. Yet with such ease was he eating, looking up at his father's smug expression, asking, "What?" And with wide eyes, he stalled, maple trickling down his chin. "You made this? All of this?"

"You needn't sound so surprised. I still know how to feed my little boy," smiled Burt, praying blue eyes wouldn't shift to catch the cookery book on the counter. "I know I've made too much, but you can always pack the rest up for lunch today, maybe share some of it with your friends, have a picnic, I don't know. I know the crap they serve you all in that canteen of yours and this will be far better for you. Better in you anyway than in the overweight pigeons that can't flap themselves off the ground."

"That's a good idea," nodded Kurt, as with a few finishing forkfuls, his plate was cleared, juice downed with the large array of remaining food now being packed away in a Tupperware box, the largest and how even then it was still hard to squeeze the lid down shut, before snatching Burt's from the counter. "Hey! That's mine!" The man's shout of protest as Kurt turned around with a wide cheeky smile. "I know, but the friend I'm eating with has an appetite that rivals yours. Trust me, I'll need this."

"Wait a minute, you haven't been touching your food all week, now you're all over it," countered Burt, said with no anger but with a smile across his face. He was just so pleased his son was eating properly again, even if it meant Kurt had to steal his own food, now two Tupperware boxes in his hands as he headed off into the hallway with a wave. "I want an explanation tonight mister, alright! And I don't want it to be because of that Sylvester woman making you eat only what you can spell!"

"Very funny! See you later!" Shouted Kurt, his bag now swinging from his shoulder as he headed to the day, to a new day, to see his friends, to that picnic with his special big friend, but now to the shout of his father as Burt cried out from the kitchen, accompanying the scraping of a chair across the floor "Wait! Hang on!" To which a "Yes?" was asked wearily and with some impatience as Kurt turned around with the front door half open, hand on the twisted knob to see his father striding up to him.

"The holidays," began Burt, business like in vocal, the sound of which drew Kurt's attention more than he'd expected. "We won't be here Christmas time but in Florida, you know, popping by Orlando, Miami and then Key West, the usual, like we did last year, so if you want to bring along a friend, maybe Quinn, Brittany or Rachel, or this friend of yours that is stealing my food, run it past any of them and let me know, 'cause I'm booking the tickets soon and I need a head count. Alright, son?"

"Okay, but I don't think I'll be asking anyone for the same reason I didn't ask anyone last year," sighed Kurt, recalling the very same conversation he'd had with his father twelve months ago, that and he hadn't had any friends to invite back in Columbus, except for a Vietnamese girl who'd spend all her time in the school library, but who'd eventually died from having her tonsils removed by a dodgy surgeon. "It's Christmas time; they're going to want to spend the holidays with their families."

"I don't know, Kurt. You can make very charming company that's hard to pass up when given the chance, and look at it this way, at least you'll have someone to play with in the playground outside the Key West hotel," chuckled Burt, that arm winding round his son's shoulder, a son giving into a smile at such immature teasing, for there was truth behind it. He loved the slides and the monkey bars, multi colored and paint faded from the sun. The scorching sand. "Just think about it, for me."

"Nu-uh. This isn't about you; this is about me, and a friend I already have in mind to ask. Happy?" Asked Kurt, smiling, and a smile that was cheeky, one that Burt hadn't seen often pulled on a face so good looking and so straight forward, as if seeing a whole new angle of his son's face, but a reminder of when he'd been a toddler in that bathtub with his mother, splashing about and laughing, now bathed in sunlight as Kurt waved him goodbye with a "See you later" on his lips, those smiling lips.

Blue bedroom eyes had been dopey with sleep when they'd opened upon the pillow, upon a room so messy with furniture pushed to the sides, his ripped drawing surrounded by little bread crumbs of glass on the skin care wet floor, his lubricant left open that had been allowed to drip all over his vanity, with even a used condom on the floor beside the trash can, the work of a flimsy throw, a bad aim, but telling of a night that had led his room to destruction through good reason. Reconciliation, sex, sex and more sex that had under inspection in the shower, chafed the inner sides of his thighs as well as his penis to a pinky red, and the aching between his buttocks, the globes of his buttocks themselves aching at the touch, dull but arousing.

There had only been one present in the bed, and that had been Kurt, with no bicep bulging arm around him, squeezing him lightly around the stomach as if he were a childhood plush toy that a high school football running back still liked to snuggle in bed with, no putrid smelling morning breath of a jock sleeping on top of him, but only a note torn from a piece of paper that had at first glance, a blurred hazy glance, brought to mind an envelope full of cash, as if he'd been a high end prostitute or maybe not even high end. Or perhaps a note scribbled with words meant to break his heart, that the night was a 'mistake', and not a hot sexy mistake, but merely a regular mistake with the need for sex, to just get off, overwhelming common sense.

The contents of the notes, the calligraphy that so wished to have been like those gold printed in the love letters, had spelled out words that had brought Kurt's lips into the first smile of the day, noticing then the rose that had been placed next to it, plucked out of the vase unharmed and saying hello as that smile had begun to hurt his cheeks, to make them ache like the rest of his body. Beside his fallen underwear, those of his lovers were gone, with the rest of his clothes. The misshapen state of the comforter indicated a recent departure and the bedroom window was closed, but the note that had been left behind to now be pressed to Kurt's heart had been the center of attention, such happy attention and so giddy in movement. In love.

_KURT_

_LAST NIGHT WAS INCREDIBLE.  
I CAN'T WAIT FOR MORE LIKE IT TO COME._

_I LOVE YOU_

_\- THE DARK PRINCE_

Driving through Lima, the dead looking trees on the streets, stopping to let cross Kindergarten kids in their furry hats, and throughout the entire journey to McKinley, the note was nestled in the passenger seat next to Kurt. It was still the center of flickering attention from those blue eyes, even if every word had been memorized, like a good song stuck on loop in the mind. He was mumbling them as if reciting the lines of a play and upon entrance to the school, his eyes were quick to search for that light blue Chevrolet truck with insides he'd imagine Puck would wish to ravish him in and to make the whole thing rock like a theme ride, the thought now almost having him run over a screaming Freshman as he came to park his car in the lot.

The Tupperware boxes, one stacked upon the other, were still on the floor of the passenger seat and not all that shaken, apart from a piece of pancake squished up against the side of Kurt's own box, the clear casing looking almost dirty with all the splattered maple syrup. The contents in Burt's own lunch box appeared fine, filled to the brim with his father's favorite, for the appetite of a horse - "a really, really hungry horse." Of big double sandwiches of Baloney, cheese, and mustard on thick white bread. Deviled ham as thick as Canadian bacon. Meat slices also as thick, covered in ketchup. A Valencia orange, the sweetest kind and for dessert, a chunky piece of cherry cobbler and applesauce gingerbread, a double feature for a day at the garage.

However this lunch was for a boy still growing, a big husky boy with an appetite just as hungry, made even hungrier from last night's excursion though largely kosher restricted by his mother when at home. In truth, Puck loved meat loaf with large chunks of raw red onion, chopped green peppers, bread crumbs and thick ketchup topping that baked to a crust in the oven. Fatty and gristly beef stews with potatoes, no vegetables and dark gravy "enriched" with flour. Corn bread biscuits. Deep fried breaded chicken with mashed potatoes. Fried frankfurters on buns, dripping with mustard, hamburgers, cheeseburgers, French fries and spaghetti with cut up hot dog. All luxuries to the jock living in a Jewish household, very rare delicious treats.

Puck may have missed breakfast, may have snuck in too late for a quick burnt piece of toast or a dry bowl of dusty old cereal which made Kurt all the more pleased for having brought something substantial for them both, where at lunch they'd sneak off to the bleachers to eat together, or even after Titan and Cheerio practice, eating and kissing, and how Puck would enjoy it, for when Kurt's boyfriend was hungry, he'd eat, and when he'd like the meal, he'd exude an enthusiasm that would be thrilling to watch. Lowered over the Tupperware box in his mud stained football gear, his studded shoes off with bare feet, warm and damp, cooling on the bleacher seat in front, Kurt could picture it now as he entered the school, noisy and bustling.

Fingers were soon to open his locker with the Tupperware tubs arranged neatly inside, the idea to write his own note in Puck's tub when he came to open it springing to mind, something sweet or something dirty perhaps, and if the latter were chosen, it wasn't as if the jock would show his fellow Titans, his peers, the note, a note of 'When you read this, Noah, think of your platinum fleshed cheerleading yearning for some red hot LOVING from his Dark Prince." It would be a note he would fold up in his pocket and keep to himself, after commenting on it right next to Kurt, and ironically, Kurt stopping him from giving him that 'red hot loving' on the bleachers, enough to roll off, and all the while laughing for oh how Puck loved him so very much.

"Heya there, vanilla skin," the greeting of Mercedes Jones as Kurt whipped a head around to catch his friend smiling there behind him, dressed in diva, purple and leopard print, and posed in diva, hand on her hip, the other resting on her swung on purse, and with that smile, that white smile, so pristine, blinding to morning eyes of students that always boasted such great contrast to her dark complexion, yet with toes about to query over his shoulder at what he was doing. "Whatcha doin, Kurt?"

"Nothin," smiled Kurt to a shrug, those hands behind his back on rocking feet now together as he pictured innocence in a single stance, adding to a sense of flirtatious playfulness, a teasing that had them both on the verge of giggles, but they never broke, only urging him on as Mercedes appeared all the more intrigued with her boy. "I'm now only noticing how good you look today. Never have you been a fiercer looking Chocolate Diva in all these halls put together if I may say so, Ms Jones."

"So do you, Kurt," replied Mercedes with a tone so impressed, those eyes rolling up and down. The cream Burberry jumper, the jeans, and the adorable plimsolls that appeared so small they looked as if they housed baby feet under its roof of white canvas. "It's nice to see you out of that Cheerio outfit once in a while. You don't get to strut your own stuff... Oh! Speaking of stuff, how was shopping for Rachel's new wardrobe? I hear you almost abandoned her with all of her bags back in the mall."

"I did not abandon her," protested Kurt, sighing. "I merely nipped into the bathroom to wash my hands and I came right back, although yes, she did have a lot of bags and they kept falling, and the clothes would come out, so we had to repack them and make sure we did it correctly so as to not crease them, and it was Rachel who insisted we do this, not me. I just wanted to get out of there before the metal gates shut on us so that we didn't have to camp out in a photo booth or something."

"Must have been the way she said it then. It sounded as if she'd sworn men off forever, even the gay ones," joked, smiled Mercedes, and Kurt himself had to smile, even laugh, for Rachel, oh how she was the ever the drama queen, though now fitted with royal robes of fashionable winter gear that would keep her snug in the biting air, like the ear muffs and gloves she'd bought him, all fur lined. "So how are you? I know these past few days has been a little rough on you haven't they?"

"They have, but I'm over it now."

"Yeah, but over what exactly?"

"Well I suppose I'm not over it, as I'm into it."

"What? What are you into?"

"Love," and with a smile, those rosy lips stretched, Mercedes' query was dropped, her concerned air left to dissipate as she came to stand next to him with that word 'love', ever curious, now asking with a head shaking rapidly from side to side, her eyes wincing as if she was in pain from the confusion, "Kurt, I don't know what the hell you're going on about," and yes, she wouldn't know. Nobody knew. A secret and yet the evidence was all over the boy's face as he smiled heartily, eyes shining.

"What is up with you today white boy?" Mercedes asked and now breaking into his personal space, his bubble popped with her eyes now scoping his face, an ever so light tint of blue fading in through his eye concealer, the work of a late night, his lips were puffier than usual, and his face, rosier, it was so much rosier. In fact, the boy wasn't wearing any base makeup at all, just his skin, all of it bare to show off color that blushed as it peeked around the locker door down the hall, one silent.

It was a large Letterman Jacket atop a body of robust broadness in the shoulders, atop the most reputably attractive body in the school that parted the corridor like the Red Sea, silencing cliques of girls from their infernal chatter, everybody shuffling to the sides like frightened cattle and all with slack jawed expressions dumbing down their faces as McKinley's Noah Puckerman sauntered his way down the hall as if he commanded the eyes of every onlooker, the swagger of a champion, the swagger of a heated, tousled bedroom, as if this boy betrayed no more self-conciousness than a proud self-displaying baboon, as if he'd wished to arrive naked, nearly would have if clothes hadn't intercepted him, yet with it all mentally undressed as he walked.

He looked great. His clothes were clean and vibrant in color. His mohawk had been trimmed and jaw shaven with hazel eyes no longer capillary burst and exhausted, maybe a little tired, but made up with that smirk,  _the_  Puckerman smirk, pulled right on those sexy lips that accompanied this bawdy manner, this suggestive manner that screamed 'masculine!' This was a boy that promised not to be meek and passive in bed, for this wayward sexually wanton jock had been in bed, and what passion had arisen with that fay of a creature in his arms, on that rocking vanity, in those tangled sheets only to wake up and leave a note beside a face he'd kissed all over, and wished not to leave for this jock was in love, sauntering swaggering happy love.

With a connection of the eyes, the champion's route swerved to the locker with the open door, with a dark complexioned girl of confusion and her friend, one of fair face that peeked from around the door, those eyes peeking, those blue eyes that caught his breath as they stepped out, and there was his creature, there was Kurt. His beauty was bewildering, maddening not to praise it where the boy stood under the unflattering overhead florescent lighting of the corridor, but beauty that just absorbed it as if it's placement was meticulous, like in a studio, and it was this that brought about a spontaneous decision to take hold of that hand and to kiss it with no shame, gracing every knuckle with puckered lips that kissed, kissed and kissed.

That Mohawk that smelled of an oily lotion, and slickly spiked, was bowed in devotion to the platinum cheerleader, the Dark Prince's own Platinum Prince, until those hazel eyes rose with that smirk that now kissed his wrist, traveling up the length of his arm with baby pecks enough to swoon over until Kurt was pulled chest to chest in the arms of his Dark Prince and both now breathing hard as if they'd just made love up against the locker, decorum thrown aside, Puck's earlier entrance of pride brought down to its knees like a food starved beggar, for when near Kurt and he was Noah. Noah knew his boy; he knew his insides, his  _insides,_ tucked by hands on his waist into his body, foreheads touching, eyes closed and perfect. Ever so perfect.

"Did you see the note I left you?" Asked Puck, a quiet breathy question that Kurt nodding, though it was hard to do against that bronzed forehead that creased as the jock looked at him, "I didn't want you waking up alone, but I had to get home before-" His words were stopped. They were pointless and need not to be said as Kurt's soft interrupting round of, "I know, I know," soon had him smiling, "It  _was_  incredible, Kurt. I just... wow, I can't stop thinkin' about it, about you babe. I love you."

"I love you too, Noah, and yes, that was some hot lovin' you gave me. Some  _hot_  lovin'."

"Fuck yeah, baby. Wanna find some empty classroom? Make some man babies?"

"Like you already didn't get me good and pregnant last night."

"Jesus I'm good."

It was with laughter that was cut as if asphyxiated into a whimper, soft and moanful that had Puck's manhood aching for his babe, and all from the teasing squeeze of a globed ass, skinny jean clad, yet not so tight as to press them as if they'd been hit with a pan, but cupped nicely, and what a squeeze,  _squeeze_ , a whole handful in Puck's palm, his large hand that found it too hard to release, as if he was a straight guy with a hand down a girl's top, fondling her large breasts that tickled her, and keeping it there, kept warm. It was this hold Puck had on Kurt that he wished to remain in, but people were watching, for it was a scene, one to rile up a raucous if slacked jaws could close, if throats weren't too dry to whisper, to shout, to scream.

The two princes let each other go with parting words heard only amongst them, the first, the Dark Prince returning to walking down the silent hall, yet with a difference evident in his stance, his movement, as if this swagger was now intoxicated, drunk with an odd imbalance in the legs, eyes dazed, that smirk no longer flirtatious but pleased, lazy, as if he'd just had his first kiss, and a kiss from the second prince, flushed in the face and readjusting his jeans at the back, now the shared subject of attention that both he and Puck had brought down on themselves, eyes of every face on him, even Mercedes' own with an expression of mathematical calculation that tried so very hard to decipher what the hell she'd seen just seen.  _What the hell?_

.

**Glee**

.

_Someday my prince will come, someday we'll meet again  
and away to his castle we'll go to be happy forever I know…_

He was sat atop the bleachers like he'd been at lunch, his Tupperware box having been in his hand, emptying the breakfast his father had whipped up and his ravenous boyfriend next to him who'd all but wolfed down Burt's big double sandwich with the accompanying desserts, yet with enough manners to swallow his food before speaking, careful not to spray Kurt with chewed up pieces of baloney and cheese as they'd talked about that word 'boyfriend', one that had belonged to them, and them alone, until that morning's public display of affection, that Puck had not explained when questioned, upfront and direct, for the bell had rung, and with a parting kiss, he'd run off to his next lesson, to leave Kurt atop those bleachers, thinking.

His Cheerio outfit dressed his perspiring body with his skin damp from a rigorous cheerleading practice, and only the first half. It was only the break that afforded him his perch on the bleachers away from his peers' whispers and stares with one having been bold enough to address it aloud at the start, a Cheerio who wore bra's too big for her, double D bras that showed right through her uniform, yet thin enough to have her nipples showing, and fake ones too, large enough to attract a hungry little infant if she were to ask Kurt, but she'd asked him something else, one he had not dignified with a response, only ignored, with eyes that had stared afar, just like he'd done for all others, all the questions, to leave their questions just hanging there.

The boy's position now on the bleachers was viewed still by many of the girls below, but he wasn't alone. He had company on either side of his body, that of Quinn, and that of Brittany's, and how close they'd snuggled against him with their shoulders pressed together, and their knees, with a tissue in Brittany's hand as she dabbed droplets of sweat away from Kurt's neck, his cheekbones and frazzled hairline, though she personally liked the look on him, the look of the skin from dancing. The boy looked at his most luminous, and not in a 'greasy' way he'd label it, as if he'd rubbed his face all over someone's white cricket trousers but a look that added a certain dimension that makeup could not bring, just could not touch, all natural and all Kurt.

However that ruby mouth began to move, that filled them in on everything, that puffy mouth that wished to confide, uttering lastly, "He came over last night, and we got into a fight and we slept together," and suddenly the perspiration on that fair skin looked different somehow, left from Puck's breath, from lovemaking, yet from movement that worried Quinn. She could remember the pain, and the  _bleeding_  that had stained her sheets as if she'd miscarried in her own bed, the dead fetus right there. Stained her panties on the filming date of Brittany's music video, such a profusing flow. Oh, how she couldn't bear to think of Kurt  _bleeding_  as well, enough to nearly check inbetween his legs for that red stain, his virginity leaking from his hole.

The tissue to fair skin had descended as Brittany recalled her time with Puck, for she too had once slept with him, though not in  _that_  pain, but in pain of a heart breaking sight. Clothes stripped, and all that bravado falling down with it. That awkward dirty talk, said as if he'd had a gun to his head and told to say it convincingly, the way he'd pretended to feast upon her body like meat and to fuck it raw with eyes tight shut. Yet she'd seen behind those lids. She'd seen Noah pretending to be 'Puck' pretending she was someone else whilst in her, and she'd cried, for it was the saddest thing she'd ever seen, and like Quinn, she hadn't orgasmed, and like Quinn, the semen in that condom had not belonged to them, but to that boy in Puck's mind.

What high alert, and what laughter to ring out because of it from Kurt's mouth, such zestful laughter, as if it were a good thing, as therapeutic as a sneeze as he assured both of his worried looking blondes that he was not harmed, but very much "well", even using the word "healthy" just for good measure, even though his body ached, a little "sore" as he put it, having had to put on both Suducrem and Bepanthen this morning to soothe the slight stinging in between his buttocks, for moving, let alone sitting down was uncomfortable. He hadn't even yet been to the toilet  _that_  way yet. He feared the pain would have him hobbling out of the stall, feared he'd actually find  _blood_ , but he hadn't. He was not torn or cut inside but well, very well.

"So... how was it?" They asked and they knew it was personal to ask, and perhaps too soon to ask it, for Kurt would most likely give them a glazed answer to match his glazed eyes at the question. An answer of how Puck and he had held each other, had loved each other with the idea of the jock entering Kurt, that innocence no longer of a child, but a variation of it, sexy innocence of teasing but without the teasing, innocent alive in Kurt's fair skin that now blushed as he came to answer.

"It was wonderful," smiled Kurt, reminiscing that smile the night to them both. "He was gentle and really slow at first. He didn't want to hurt me. Had me up in his arms and always face and face. There wasn't a position he had me in that didn't have us looking into each other's eyes. I mean, he'd never break eye contact and he'd kiss me all the time,  _all_  the time, even the times when we, you know, really got into it and it was all heat and lusty, but yeah, it was a night to remember for sure."

"Weren't there any, I don't know, minor complications? I mean, didn't it hurt at all?" Asked Quinn slightly incredulously, once again recalling her own experience with the jock, the pain, for before losing her virginity she'd been so very tight it had been painful to even use tampons, even more painful after losing it, the scolding feeling when peeing as if she'd been ripped open. "Come on Kurt, it was your first time. It couldn't have been perfect on your first time. Rarely is it perfect for anyone, right?"

"I didn't say it was perfect, I said it was wonderful," countered Kurt. "And yes of course it hurt, Q. At first, I hid my face in his neck just so he wouldn't see how much it hurt. In fact I nearly jumped right off and called it quits. I wasn't even really up for sex. I didn't know I was ready, didn't know if even if we'd have sex it would be in that way because I was scared of the pain, but he relaxed me, whispered assurances to breathe and to breathe nice and deeply, and I did, and that's how I got over it."

"So it was his idea to have sex?" Asked Quinn and answered with a curt nod as Kurt suddenly looked down to see Brittany's hand placed over his stomach, rubbing it in concentric circles as if he were pregnant, saying hello to the little 'man baby' Puck had gifted him with in last night's lovemaking, and the smile on her face as she rubbed, and the smile on his as he found it soothing, yet brought back to attention as Quinn continued to speak. "And he said he wanted to have sex, just like that?"

"Well I sort of initiated the foreplay," replied Kurt, shyly now as laughter rang from down below, the hyena like laughter of Cheerios, and how it disconcerted him. He always subconsciously believed they were ridiculing him, feared both Quinn and Brittany would do the same as they leaned in closer, eyes curious. "I wanted to calm him down after our fight by performing on him something I'd read online once called tantric sex, which is essentially like Karma Sutra but for masturbation, and I-"

"Oh Kurt," laughed Quinn, laughter too damn pretty to not enjoy, but to bring about a frown on Kurt's brow. "When you were setting me up to date Puck, don't you remember me saying he'd never wait as long as nine dates to get to third base? Kurt, that boy isn't Indian, he's a hot bloodied American, and here, boys, especially Puck, will want to go all the way if they can, and will want to have an orgasm too. I can bet right now he had his mind set to have sex with you the moment you touched him."

"How do you know about tantric sex?"

"Brittany here told me about it once."

"Really, Brit?"

"Well, my toy broke so I thought it would get it working again."

"What? What toy are you... oh," and with a giggle, like laughter gushing with breath, Kurt smiled for such silliness that was Brittany made him all young inside, and she in turn took delight in it, even going far as to say, "I'll buy one for you too Kurt. A nice pretty pink one that shakes and spins around." There was Quinn shaking her head, smiling openly into her hand, and Kurt in full blown laughter as he hugged the blonde, "Thanks Brit, but Puck would think I'd be replacing him and his Big Thing."

"It is  _big_  isn't it, and you only have a little bottom," teased Brittney, earning her a light shoulder shove, with Kurt wishing to argue that there was plenty of his fleshy bottom for Puck to work with, and how good it looked clad in his Cheerio pants, and all because of them. They had helped shape his globes into that perfect oval shape, like two soft pillows for a baby's head to sleep on, resembling two perfect scoops of ice cream, the fine results of their labor, something sweet under those clothes.

"So what did Puck say when you asked him about this morning?" Now asked Quinn only to have Kurt staring afar to the other side of the field where the Titan footballers were enjoying their break, water spraying over heads, how it trickled and masked those unsightly sweat stains that allegedly some Cheerios had a thing for, pinched the nostrils of some of the others, like Kurt, except for Puck's sweat. He knew of his boyfriend's sweat, a boyfriend now not seen amongst those stained jerseys.

"He didn't say anything."

"Nothing at all?"

"No. He just kissed me and ran off to his next lesson, probably only to go and tell more people."

"And you have a problem with this?"

"Well... no, but it's just. I don't know," sighed Kurt, his head lowering on drooping shoulders. "He was the one who wished to have our relationship closeted until he was comfortable fully coming out. I'm the only one who knew. He hasn't even told his mom yet as far as I know. I thought he wanted to give it time, but then he went and did that. I just don't understand it. We only patched things up last night. How could he have gained that much confidence to out himself in front of so many people?"

"He's in love with you, Kurtie. What did you think would happen," smiled Brittany, running her fingers through the back of his hair to lay a gentle kiss to his cheek, the remnants of which remained there, lip gloss, and red lip gloss with an artificial scent of strawberries, leaving a stain. To Kurt, it was as if they were telling him Puck was in love with him for the first time back in Quinn's love letter covered bed, his blue eyes as wide as a lamb's, and as naive, but now furrowed in retaliation, in objection.

"Just because he loves me doesn't mean he no longer has any self-control. I mean I love him to pieces too but you don't see me going around like a great big hunk in a Letterman jacket, strutting down that hall like a tiger, giving people that 'I'm so hot you can't resist me' look... what?" The question fueling the giggles of both blondes, their hands descending from their open ruby mouths to their hearts, hands that spoke of 'aww', and so many 'aww's. "What? It's true. You don't see me doing that."

"That's what Puck does, Kurt. That's his thing. It's what he used to do get girls to fall flat on their faces for him, but now he has you, and you're worth swaggering down a fully packed hall for," smiled Quinn. "Any guy would have done the same if they were with the one they loved, as well as who they thought to be the hottest person in school, even you will Kurt soon enough, because you love him. Come on Kurt, admit it! You love that swagger of his, his body, you love it all, you love him!"

To an unsuspecting body, hands were unleashed to play around his ears, under his chin, his sides, his thighs, tickling him and making him writhe where he sat, the sweetly laughing little victim of two blondes chanting incessantly in cheerleading tones, "L-O-V-E! You love him! You love him!" If the bleachers had been weaker, it would have rattled with their movements, ones that had both Quinn and Brittany's skirts shifting to let teasingly see their panties, and tight panties, as tight as Kurt's pants, tight enough to show the crack of their buttocks for the smokers to see underneath. And to hear Kurt's screams, his pleas for them to stop in laughter, pleasant laughter, painful at times to the point where he could no longer breathe, losing his breath.

Saved by the bell he was, or moreover the whistle as their coach, Sylvester, went on to shout into her big red megaphone, her second mouth, that dreadful loud thing too big for her face, that swallowed it whole as if to suction her lips right off, but enough to shatter glass and ear drums alike as everyone came running like loyal followers, even the trio up on the bleachers, screaming extra loud for them. Kurt nearly made to trip on his way down, almost did when his foot landed at an odd angle near the bottom, for his body was exhausted, tickled out and all but dragged down the final steps to the pitch below, looking over at the Titans on their side of the field, their land separated from theirs, divided with that long white line, that big 50.

Thrown amongst the throng, the smell of cheap perfume and acne concealed with shovel tons worth of clogging foundation makeup, the Titans remained reflected in those blue eyes, but not all eleven players present, still. Their running back was missing, and what a happy running back he'd been running off. Kissing Kurt's mouth full of syrupy pancake, the idea of going on holiday together,  _together_ , one Kurt had invited him on, and asked dismissively, predicting a Christmas Puckerman family engagement, but an invitation firmly accepted with bouncing enthusiasm. Oh how Kurt could recall the running back's face and squeezing Kurt tight around the stomach enough for him to nearly regurgitate that very same pancake he'd just swallowed.

Those blue eyes drenching the Titans broke away to from his position, and to dance from that position into many others that had him feeling queasy, perhaps from the dancing, the tickling from earlier, that celebrities candy smell sprayed on as if it had been drenched on, the cigarette smoke from underneath the bleachers, lunch's food digested improperly, how much Puck  _loved_  him,  _loved_  him,  _loved_  him, love that consumed him whole until he could not hear the music, the shouts of protests from behind him, that megaphone once again on full blast, disgruntled faces all around until he was lifted into arms so large in size, burly as a farmer's country boy that ploughed fields with hands, large hands to squeeze thick cow udders bursting with milk.

With straight up words, and with sensuality of the bedroom, "Hi baby. Missed me?" The missing running back was now found, his boyfriend, Noah and so handsome with that open smile of his, those hazel eyes twinkling Kurt's way. Had been twinkling the boy's way since practice had resumed, defying the barking shouts of his own coach as he'd strolled over to the dancing Cheerios, swaggering like he'd done this morning but hard to with his football gear on, restricted in his tight pants but able to weave in none the less through them all, some having danced right into him only to bounce off from his padded chest to the ground, like walking right into a rose garden and crushing every one underfoot to reach the finest looking rose in the center.

The fair boy was near hyperventilating, his breathing labored and fixed on the sight of his fellow Cheerios all around, now formed in a ring as if surrounding them both, unmoving, but to him closing in, to blue eyes filled with moisture, his young face tightening as if in danger of shattering. Those gaping mouths like this morning, he feared their laughter,  _they're all going to laugh at us. Noah, why are you doing this?_ And Puck looked from those mouths all agape, even Sylvester's lips parted with her frown in place, a mere quick cursory glance of a look, not worth taking, to look back at his rose, his boy like a bride in his arms that now tilted his light body even further to face him, to loll that head his way, to have those eyes look at him,  _look at me_.

To reassure, anything to reassure, Puck whispered, "Kurt it's alright," and it was alright, yet for Kurt, it was not. Although it was not as if he was ashamed of Puck, for he wasn't, and he'd be honest when he'd admit it too, it sure looked that way. Those cheeks rosy with embarrassment, and over Puck, the ugly flush. Those hands now covering his tightly shut eyes, like a crying child prettified onstage and the jock supposed a growing stain would appear at the crotch of his Cheerio pants, peeing with stray yellow droplets falling at Puck's studded feet, and how Kurt would grow ever more embarrassed, worth dying in Puck's arms for it to cease as he removed his hands from his face to look at him, swallowing it down with anger as water.

Like an order, one far too clearly for Puck's liking, "Noah, put me down right now," and right now meant right for within the next second Kurt was squirming out of Puck's tightening arms, or trying to, as if like a little animal trying to escape the tight grasp of an over excited child, unknowingly on its way to killing it, shattering its rib cage with pudgy fingers. Light grunts for the jock to, "put me... Noah, let go of me right now!" The struggling, the look on Puck's disheartened face, one mirrored on both Quinn and Brittany's as they pushed their way to the front to look on, looking at each other, wondering whether to help Kurt out, or to get him to make him stop, for he still underestimated Puck's love for him, now seething, "Noah. Put. Me. Down."

"No."

"Put me down, dammit."

"No."

"Noah!"

"No, Kurt! I love you and you'll be in my arms whether you like it or not," Such a passionate protest, love now thrown into the air amongst that passion as gasps rang out once more, capturing Puck's attention with determination, "Relax people it's not a courtroom drama. What's trippin you guys up anyway? The fact that I'd ever fall in love, or that I'd fall in love with a dude? Because I have! I'm totally gay for Kurt's man love here and if you got a problem with that, come at me, see what happens!"

"What the actual fuck is going on here?" Barked a voice, and one of a jock, Trent Matthews, as in came a fluctuation of Puck's fellow Titans, bursting through the ring of Cheerios to oversee a sight they had had to squint from over across the field, how they'd jogged right over to check what was going on, and to see this, Puckerman holding Oklahomo Hummel of all people in his arms like a bride, one with his face covered with his hands. "Yo, Puckerman! What the fuck are you doing with Humme-"

"Shut the hell up, they're having a moment!" screamed Quinn, a scream having those around her jumping, sending Brittany's own features into a wince and with a disgruntled frown, Trent appeared to back down, looking amongst his fellow Titans, how they had once stood in this exact spot on the field many months ago, Cheerios on one side, them at the other, Puck at the lead, Kurt before him, and in such anger they had been towards each other, for it all to be now just a mere distant memory.

With haunting words from a fair boy now looking at him, "We went too fast too young," Noah shook his head, and shook it profusely, as if Kurt were now dying in his arms, losing hope that those around them would never understand their love, and only to  _hate_  them, hate them  _both_ , with their  _eyes_  that would flame at rumors that they'd been lovers all along, that that pale ass fag had converted their hero Noah Puckerman,  _their_  Noah Puckerman, their star running back who suffered from deep sexual repression issues, and having only worked out for Kurt, all the more muscle to pound that boy across every desk in their school with the tongue of that same boy sticking out disrespectfully out to them, that  _tongue_ , that come covered tongue.

However faces were softening as if their skin had been drenched in refreshing moisturizer, fond smiles too on some the Titans themselves as Puck's chuckles rumbled through his chest, bringing those smiling lips to Kurt's in a kiss so passionate it had his fair boy feeling even lighter in the jock's arms, even melting, for Kurt was melting. Hands winding round Puck's neck, and quite a thick neck, masculine, for Noah Puckerman was all man, still McKinley's star running back, still the school's bad boy figure yet only now with someone by his side, someone on his arm, and a wielding arm that would protect that someone, that boy, Kurt Hummel, from danger like the Dark Prince Puck was to him, the beautiful fair boy with a face cuter than any button.

It was the applause that broke the kiss, applause akin to an artist who craved those clapping hands, raised in the air, coming together for them, and all led by both Quinn and Brittany, with no need to urge their fellow Cheerios along with gestures meant to manipulate for a growing number were already joining in, the sound of wolf whistles from Titan lips, those blonde screams so happy for them. Tears were in Brittany's eyes, no longer clapping, but praying positioned hands over mouth for never had she seen such a romantic sight, her boy, her Kurt contorted into beauty that had her whimpering, blubbering even, for just the way he shined in all their presences up in those arms. She'd waited for this day to come.  _And now it has come._

The jock broke out of the Cheerio hooped ring, through tall armored Titans, and out across the field as with his own words he smirked Kurt's way, "Oh Baby, just shut up and love me," and oh how Kurt smiled, out of his peripheral vision catching sight of Quinn and Brittany's waves, Sylvester's deafening screams for him to return, but bringing his pillowed lips to meet Puck's, his boyfriend, their love sizzling red hot now opening a new chapter for them both. Theirs, for it was everything they'd ever wanted and more. To learn of compassion after so much animosity, to understand that two young boys with more courage than they knew had found their prayers were answered. Can that not be called happiness? After all, this was their story…

_Some day when spring is here we'll find our love anew  
_ _and the birds will sing and wedding bells will ring  
_ _some day when my dreams come true…_

**_THE END_**


End file.
